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ERIS 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  FLAMING  JEWEL,"  "THE  LITTLE  R£» 
FOOT,"  "the  slayer  OF  SOULS,"  "iN  SECRCT," 

"the  common  law,"   etc. 


NEW  XBJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


BRIS.  I 


PRINTED  IN"  THE   UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
HARRY  PAYNE  BURTON 


2226909 


E  R  I  S 


E  R  I  S 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  baby  was  bom  at  Whitewater  Farms  about  nine 
in  the  morning,  April  19,  1900.  Two  pure-breed 
calves, — one  a  heifer,  the  other  a  bull, — were  dropped  the 
same  day  at  nearly  the  same  hour. 

Odell  came  in  toward  noon,  heard  these  farm  items  from 
his  foreman,  Ed  Lister. 

For  twenty  years  Odell' s  marriage  had  been  childless. 
He  had  waited  in  vain  for  a  son, — for  several  sons, — and 
now,  after  twenty  sterile  years  of  hardship,  drudgery,  and 
domestic  discord,  Fanny  had  given  him  a  girl. 

He  stood  in  silence,  chewing  the  bitter  news. 

"Awright,"  he  said,  "that's  tlwA!    Is  Queen  doin'  good?" 

Whitewater  Queen  was  doing  as  well  as  could  be  ex- 
pected and  her  fourth  heifer  calf  was  a  miracle  of  Guernsey 
beauty. 

"Awright!  Veal  that  danged  bull-caaf.  That's  White 
Chief's  second  bull  outa  White  Rose.  I'm  done.  We'll 
take  her  to  Hilltop  Acres  next  time.    And  that's  that!" 

He  dusted  the  fertiliser  and  land  plaster  from  his  patched 
canvas  jacket : 

"It  blowed  some,"  he  said.  "I  oughta  waited.  Cost  me 
five  dollars,  mebbe.  I  thought  it  might  rain;  that's  why. 
It's  one  dum  thing  after  another.    It  alius  comes  like  that." 

He  scraped  the  bottom  of  his  crusted  boots  against  the 
concrete  rim  of  the  manure  pit. 

7 


8  ERIS 

A  bitter  winter  with  practically  no  snow;  dry  swamps; 
an  April  drouth;  a  disastrous  run  of  bull  calves  with  no 
market, — and  now,  after  twenty  years,  a  girl  baby ! 

How  was  a  man  going  to  get  ahead?  How  was  he  to 
break  even?  Twenty  years  Odell  had  waited  for  sons  to 
help  him.  He  should  have  had  three  or  four  at  work  by 
this  time.     Instead  he  was  paying  wages. 

"I  guess  Fanny's  kinda  bad,"  remarked  the  foreman. 

Odell  looked  up  from  his  brooding  study  of  the  manure. 

"I  dunno,"  continued  the  foreman;  "another  Doc  is  here, 
too.  He  come  with  a  train  nurse  n'hour  ago.  Looks  kinda 
bad  to  me,  Elmer." 

Odell  gazed  stupidly  at  Lister. 

"What  other  Doc?"  he  demanded. 

"Old  Doc  Benson.     Doc  Wand  sent  Mazie  for  him." 

Odell  said  nothing.  After  a  moment  or  two  he  walked 
slowly  toward  the  house. 

In  the  kitchen  a  neighbour,  one  Susan  Hagan,  a  gross 
widow,  was  waddling  around  getting  dinner,  perspiring  and 
garrulous.  Two  or  three  farm  hands,  in  bantering  conver- 
sation, stood  washing  or  drying  their  faces  at  the  sink. 

Mazie,  the  big,  buxom  daughter  of  Ed  Lister,  moved 
leisurely  about,  setting  the  table.  She  was  laughing,  as 
usual,  at  the  men's  repartee. 

But  when  Odell  appeared  the  clatter  of  the  roller-towel 
ceased.    So  did  Mazie's  laughter  and  the  hired  men's  banter. 

Mrs.  Hagan  was  the  first  to  recover  her  tongue : 

"Now,  Elmer,"  she  began  in  imctuous  tones,  "you  set 

right  down  here  and  eat  a  mite  o'  ham "     She  already 

had  him  by  the  sleeve  of  his  canvas  jacket.  She  grasped  a 
smoking  fry-pan  in  the  other  hand.  The  smoke  from  it 
blew  into  Odell' s  face. 

"Leggo,"  he  grunted,  jerking  his  arm  free. 

Mrs.  Hagan  encountered  Mazie's  slanting  black  eyes,  nar- 
row with  derision : 

"Elmer  don't  want  to  eat;  he  wants  to  see  Fanny,"  said 


ERIS  9 

Mazie  Lister.  And  added:  "Your  ham's  burning,  Mrs. 
Hagan." 

"Where's  Doc  Wand?"  demanded  Odell  heavily. 

Mrs.  Hagan  savagely  snatched  the  answer  from  Mazie's 
red  lips : 

"Oh,  Elmer,"  she  burst  out,  "he's  went  and  called  in  old 
Doc  Benson;  and  Benson  he  fetched  a  train  nurse  from 

Summit "    Smoke  from  the  burning  ham  strangled  her. 

Odell  left  her  coughing,  and  strode  toward  the  sitting  room. 

"Dang  it!"  he  muttered,  "what  next!" 

It  was  cool  and  dusky  in  the  sitting  room.  He  halted  in 
the  golden  gloom,  sullenly  apprehensive,  listening  for  any 
sound  from  the  bed-room  overhead. 

After  a  little  while  Dr.  Wand  came  downstairs.  He  was 
haggard  and  white,  but  when  he  caught  sight  of  Odell  he 
went  to  him  with  a  smile.  The  village  folk  feared  and 
trusted  Dr.  Wand.  They  feared  his  sarcasm  and  trusted  his 
skill.  But,  with  the  self-assertion  of  inferiority,  they  all 
called  him  "Fred"  or  "Doc." 

"Well,  Elmer,"  he  said,  "the  baby's  doing  nicely.  ...  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  have  Dr.  Benson  look  at  Fanny.  .  .  . 
A  fine  baby,  Elmer.  .  .  .  Fanny  asked  me  to  think  up  some 
uncommon  and  pretty  name  for  your  little  girl " 

"Name  her  anything,"  said  Odell  thickly.  .  .  .  "Dang  it, 
I  waited  twenty  years  for  a  boy.  And  now  look  what  I 
get!  It  all  comes  to  once.  White  Rose  drops  me  a  buU- 
caaf,  too.    But  I  can  veal  that!" 

"Better  luck  next  time " 

"No,"  he  interrupted  fiercely,  "I'm  done!"  He  turned 
and  stared  at  the  sun-bars  on  the  lowered  shade,  his  tanned 
features  working. 

"It's  like  the  herd,"  he  said.  "Either  the  cow  or  the  herd- 
bull's  to  blame  for  every  dinged  bull  caaf.  And  I  can't 
afford  to  breed  'em  together  more'n  twice.  .  .  .  Twenty 
years  I  been  lookin'  for  a  boy,  Doc.  No,  I'm  done.  And 
that's  that!" 


10  E  R  I  S 

"You'd  better  go  and  eat,"  suggested  the  doctor. 
Odell  nodded :     "Fanny  awright  ?" 
"We're  watching  her.    Perhaps  you'd  better  stay  around 
this  afternoon,  Elmer " 


"I  gotta  spread  manure " 

"I  want  you  within  caUing  distance,"  repeated  the  doctor 
mildly. 

Odell  looked  up.     After  a  moment's  hesitation : 

"Awright,  Doc.  I  guess  I  can  work  around  nearby. 
You  must  be  dead-beat.     Eat  a  snack  with  us  ?" 

"Not  now.     I  can't  leave  your  wife." 

"Do  you  mean  that  Fanny's  kinda  bad?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Your  wife  is  very,  very  ill,  Elmer.  Dr.  Ben- 
son is  with  her  now." 

Breaking  ground  for  a  new  kitchen  garden  that  after- 
noon, Odell  found  the  soil  so  infested  with  quack-root, 
horse-radish,  and  parsnip  that  he  gave  it  up  and  told  Lister 
that  they'd  fence  the  place  as  cheaply  as  possible  and  turn 
the  hogs  on  it. 

Lister  hooked  up  a  horse  and  drove  away  to  hunt  for 
locust  posts  and  wire.  Odell  dragged  his  plow  to  the  wagon 
shed,  stabled  the  fat  gray  horse,  walked  slowly  back  toward 
the  wood  shed.  There  was  a  dead  apple  tree  he  could  fell 
while  waiting. 

It  was  very  still  there  in  the  April  sunshine.  All  signs  of 
rain  were  gone.  The  wind  had  died  out.  Save  for  the 
hum  of  bees  in  crocus  and  snow-drop,  and  except  for  the 
white  cock's  clarion  from  the  runs,  no  sound  broke  the  blue 
silence  of  an  April  afternoon. 

Odell  looked  up  at  the  window  of  his  wife's  bed-room. 
The  white-capped  nurse  was  seated  there,  her  head  turned 
as  though  intent  upon  something  taking  place  within  the 
room.  She  did  not  stir.  After  a  while  Odell  picked  up 
his  spading  fork  and  wiped  the  tines. 

Yes,  every  kind  of  bad  luck  was  coming  at  once ;  drouth. 


E  R I  S  li 

bull  calves,  wind  to  waste  fertiliser  doctors'  bills,  expenses 
for  a  nurse,  for  Mrs.  Hagan,  for  posts  and  wire, — ^and  the 
land  riddled  with  quack  and  horse-radish.  .  .  . 

He'd  about  broken  even,  so  far,  during  the  last  twenty 
years.  All  these  years  he'd  marked  time,  doggedly,  plug- 
ging away.  Because,  after  all,  there  had  been  nothing  else 
to  do.  He  could  not  stop.  To  sell  meant  merely  to  begin 
again  somewhere  else,  plug  away,  break  about  even  year 
after  year,  die  plugging.  That  was  what  general  farming 
meant  in  White  Hills  when  there  were  wages  to  pay.  He 
could  have  made  money  with  sons  to  help  him.  ...  Life 
was  a  tread-mill.  What  his  cattle  took  from  the  land  they 
gave  back ;  nothing  more.  He  was  tired  of  the  tread-mill. 
A  squirrel  in  a  cage  travelled  no  further  and  got  as  far.  .  .  . 

Odell  drove  his  spading  fork  into  the  ground,  sifted  out 
fragments  of  horse-radish  roots,  kicked  them  under  the 
fence  into  the  dusty  road  beyond. 

Dr.  Wand's  roadster  stood  out  there  by  the  front  gate. 
Behind  it  waited  Dr.  Benson's  driver  in  the  new  limousine 
car.  Odell  had  not  felt  he  could  afford  any  kind  of  car, — 
not  even  a  tractor.     These  danged  doctors.  .  .  . 

As  he  stood  with  one  foot  resting  on  his  spading  fork, 
gazing  gloomily  at  the  two  cars.  Dr.  Benson,  fat,  ruddy  and 
seventy,  came  out  of  the  house  with  his  satchel. 

He  nodded  to  Odell : 

"Dr.  Wand  wants  you,"  he  said.     "She's  conscious." 

After  the  portly  physician  had  driven  away  down  the 
dusty  road,  Odell  went  into  the  house  and  ascended  the 
stairs  to  the  common  bed-room  from  which  now,  in  all 
probability,  he  was  to  be  excluded  for  a  while. 

Dr.  Wand,  beside  the  bed,  very  tired,  motioned  Odell  to 
draw  nearer.  It  was  the  ghost  of  his  wife  he  saw  lying 
there. 

"Well,"  he  grunted  with  an  effort,  "you  don't  feel  very 
spry,  I  guess.     You  look  kinda  peekid.  Fan." 

All  the  stored  resentment  of  twenty  barren  years  glittered 


1«  E  R I  S 

in  his  wife's  sunken  eyes.  She  knew  his  desire  for  sons. 
She  knew  what  he  now  thought  of  her. 

She  said  in  a  distinct  voice  to  Dr.  Wand:     "Tell  him." 

The  doctor  said :  "Your  wife  has  asked  me  to  think  up 
some  new  and  unusual  name  for  the  baby.  I  suggested 
'Eris,' "  he  added  blandly.  And,  after  a  silence:  "Your 
wife  seems  to  like  the  name." 

Odell  nodded :     "Awright." 

His  wife  said  to  the  doctor,  in  her  painfully  distinct 
voice :  "I  want  she  should  have  a  name  that  no  other  baby's 
got.  .  .  .  Because — that's  all  I  can  give  her.  .  .  .  Some- 
thing no  other  baby's  got.  .  .  .  Write  it,  Doctor." 

Dr.  Ward  wrote  "Eris"  on  the  birth  certificate.  His 
expression  became  slightly  ironical. 

"Eris,"  he  repeated,    "Do  you  both  approve  this  name  ?" 

Odell  shrugged  assent. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman.  "She's  mine.  All  I  can  give 
her  is  this  name.    /  give  it." 

"Eris  was  the  name  of  a  Greek  goddess,"  remarked  the 
doctor.  He  did  not  explain  that  Eris  was  the  goddess  of 
Discord.  "I'm  very  sure,"  he  added,  "that  no  other  baby  is 
named  Eris.  .  .  .  But  plenty  of  'em  ought  to  be.  .  .  .  Was 
there  anything  you  wanted  to  say  to  your  wife,  Elmer?" 

"Hey?"  demanded  Odell,  stupidly. 

Suddenly  something  in  the  physician's  eyes  sent  a  dull 
shock  through  Odell.  He  turned  and  stared  at  his  wife  as 
though  he  had  never  before  laid  eyes  on  her.  After  a 
while  he  found  his  voice : 

"You — you'll  get  better  after  a  spell,"  he  stammered. 
"Feel  like  eatin'  a  mite  o'  sunthin'  tasty?  You  want  I 
should  get  you  a  little  jell  'rsunthin' — Fanny " 

Her  bright,  stmken  gaze  checked  him. 

"You  ain't  asked  to  see  the  baby,"  she  said  in  her  thin, 
measured  voice;  "I'm  sorry  I  ever  bore  a  child  to  you, 
Elmer." 

Odell    reddened:    "Where  is  it ?"     He  stumbled  up 


E  R I  S  IS 

from  his  chair,  looking  vaguely  about  him,  confused  by  her 
briUiant  eyes — by  their  measureless  resentment. 

For  life  was  becoming  too  brief  for  pretence  now.  Fanny 
knew  it ;  her  husband  began  to  realise  it. 

She  said :  "I'm  glad  I  have  no  sons.  I'm  sorry  I  bore  a 
child.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me.  .  .  .  Because  I'll  never  rest, 
never  be  quiet,  now.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  mind  so  much  .  .  . 

if  THEY  will  let  me  keep  an  eye  on  her  somehow " 

She  tried  to  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow:  "I  want  to  see 
her,"  she  said  sharply. 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  want  you  to  see  her.  Wait  a 
moment " 

As  he  passed  Odell  he  drew  him  outside.  "Go  down- 
stairs," he  whispered.  "I'll  call  you  if  she  asks  to  see  you 
again." 

"She  ain't  a-goin'  to  get  no  better?"  demanded  Odell 
hoarsely. 

"No." 

The  physician  passed  on  into  the  adjoining  room,  where 
the  nurse  sat  watching  a  new-bom  baby  in  its  brand  new 
cradle. 

Odell  continued  down  the  stairs,  and  seated  himself  in 
the  dim  sitting  room.  .  .  . 

Everything  was  coming  at  once  —  drouth,  wind,  bull 
calves,  girl  babies — ^and  Death.  .  .  .  All  were  coming  at 
once.  .  .  .  But  no  sons  had  ever  come.  None  would  ever 
come  now.  So — wages  must  go  on.  ...  A  woman  to 
mind  the  baby.  .  .  .  And  somebody  to  keep  house  for  him. 
.  .  .  Expense  piling  on  expense.  And  no  outlook — ^no 
longer  any  chance  to  break  even.  .  .  .  Where  was  he  to  get 
more  money?  He  could  not  carry  the  farm  on  his  own 
shoulders  all  alone.  The  more  work  planned,  the  more  men 
needed;  and  the  more  it  all  cost.  Increased  acreage,  re- 
doubled production,  got  him  no  further.  Always  it  was,  at 
best,  merely  an  even  break — every  loss  offsetting  every 
gain.  .  .  . 


14  E  R I  S 

One  of  the  cats  came  in  with  a  bam  rat  hanging  from  her 
mouth,  looked  furtively  at  Odell,  then  slunk  out,  tail 
twitching. 

The  man  dropped  his  elbows  on  the  centre  table  and  took 
his  unshaven  face  between  both  scarred  fists.  .  .  . 

The  room  had  grown  as  still  as  death  now.  Which  was 
fitting  and  proper. 

After  a  long  while  Dr.  Wand  descended  the  stairs.  Odell 
stood  up  in  the  semi-dusk  of  the  sitting  room. 

"She  didn't  ask  for  you  again,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Is — is  she — gone  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Quite  painlessly." 

They  walked  slowly  to  the  porch.  It  was  nearly  milking 
time.  The  herd  was  coming  up  the  long  lane, — the  sun 
dipping  low  behind, — and  a  delicate  rosy  light  over  every- 
thing. 

"You  got  your  milking  to  do,"  said  the  doctor.  "I'll 
notify  Wilbur  Chase.     I'll  see  to  everything,  Elmer." 

Wilbur  Chase  was  the  local  undertaker.  The  doctor  went 
out  to  the  road,  cranked  his  car,  got  in  wearily,  and  rolled 
away  toward  the  village. 

Odell  stood  motionless.  In  his  ears  sounded  the  cow- 
bells, tonk-a-tonk,  tonk-a-tonk,  as  the  Whitewater  herd 
turned  leisurely  into  the  bam  yard.  Ed  Lister  opened  the 
sliding  doors  to  the  cow-barn.  A  frisky  heifer  or  two 
balked;  otherwise  the  herd  went  in  soberly,  filing  away 
behind  spotless,  sweet-smelling  rows  of  stalls,  greeted 
thunderously  by  the  great  herd-bull  from  his  steel  bull-pen. 

Odell,  heavy-eyed,  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  upstairs. 

But  at  the  door  of  the  silent  room  above  the  nurse  barred 
his  way. 

"I'll  let  you  know  when  you  can  see  her,"  she  said.  "She 
isn't  ready." 

Odell  gazed  at  her  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"The  baby  is  in  the  other  room,"  added  the  nurse.  "Don't 
wake  her.     Better  not  touch  her." 


ERIS  15 

He  went,  obediently,  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  scarred 
hands  hanging. 

Eris  lay  asleep  in  her  brand  new  cradle,  almost  invisible 
under  the  white  fabrics  that  swathed  her. 

The  chamber  of  death  was  no  stiller  than  this  dim  room 
where  life  was  beginning.  There  was  no  sound,  no  light 
except  a  long,  rosy  ray  from  the  setting  sim  falling  athwart 
the  cradle. 

So  slept  Eris,  daughter  of  discord,  and  so  named, — an 
unwelcome  baby  bom  late  in  her  parents'  lives,  and  opening 
her  blind,  bluish  eyes  like  an  April  wind-flower  in  a  world 
still  numb  from  winter. 

Odell  stared  at  the  mound  of  covers. 

It  would  be  a  long  while  before  this  baby  could  be  of  any 
use  at  Whitewater  Farms. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning,  either  for  cattle  or 
for  men. 

When  Fanny  died  Odell  was  forty.  Two  months  later 
he  married  the  strapping  daughter  of  Ed  Lister.  And 
came  to  the  turn  in  the  long,  long  lane  he  had  travelled  for 
twenty  years. 

For,  as  Whitewater  Queen  was  a  breeder  of  heifer  calves, 
Mazie  Lister  proved  to  be  a  breeder  of  men. 

Every  year,  for  the  first  four  years,  she  gave  Odell  a  son. 

There  was  no  fuss  made  about  these  events.  Mazie 
Lister  was  the  kind  of  girl  who  could  eat  cabbage  for  break- 
fast, wad  it  down  with  pie,  drive  it  deeper  with  a  quart  of 
buttermilk. 

Once,  to  prove  she  could  do  it,  she  ate  a  whole  roast 
sucking  pig,  five  boiled  potatoes,  six  ears  of  corn,  a  dish  of 
cranberry  sauce,  and  an  entire  apple  pie;  and  washed  it 
down  with  three  quarts  of  new  cider. 

Her  feed  never  fattened  her;  it  seemed  to  make  her  skin 
pinker,  teeth  whiter,  long,  slanting  black  eyes  more  brilliant. 

No  cares  worried  her.  She  laughed  a  great  deal.  She 
was  busy  from  dawn  to  dark.  Un fatigued  but  sleepy,  she 
yawned  frightfully  toward  nine  o'clock.  It  was  her  time 
to  roost. 

Mazie's  instincts  concerning  progeny  were  simple.  She 
nursed  each  arrival  as  long  as  necessary,  then  weaned  it. 
Then  the  youngster  had  to  learn  to  shift  for  himself — 
wash  and  dress,  turn  up  at  meal  hours,  turn  in  wifh  the 
chickens,  rise  with  the  crows. 

It  was  a  little  different,  however,  with  Eris,  whom  Mazie 

16 


E  R I  S  17 

had  inherited.  Eris,  of  course,  was  bottle-fed.  White- 
water Queen's  heifer-calf,  White  Princess,  had  no  better 
care.  Whatever  was  advisable  was  completely  and  thor- 
oughly done  in  both  cases. 

White  Princess  grew  to  beautiful  Guernsey  symmetry, 
with  every  promise  of  conformation  to  classic  type;  and 
was  duly  registered.  Little  Eris,  small  boned,  with  deli- 
cately fashioned  limbs,  looked  out  on  the  world  from  a  pair 
of  crystal-blue,  baby  eyes,  which  ultimately  became  a  deep, 
limpid  grey. 

Unlike  White  Princess,  Eris  did  not  promise  to  conform 
to  the  Odell  type.  There  seemed  to  be  little  of  that  breed 
about  her.  Fanny  had  been  bony  and  shiny-skinned,  with 
a  high-bridged,  pinkish  nose,  watery  eyes — a  wisp  of  a 
woman  with  a  rodent's  teeth  and  every  articulation  apparent 
as  a  ridge  under  a  dry,  tightly  stretched  epidermis. 

Odell,  with  his  even,  white  teeth,  coarse,  highly-coloured 
skin  and  brown  eyes,  was  a  compact,  stocky,  heavy-handed, 
broad-footed  product  of  Scotch-Irish  pioneer  stock.  But 
Fanny's  grandmother,  a  Louisiana  Creole,  had  run  away 
from  school  to  go  on  the  stage,  and  had  married  a  hand- 
some but  dissolute  Southern  planter  who  died  of  drink. 

Sundays  Fanny  used  to  wear  her  grandmother's  portrait 
painted  in  miniature  on  ivory,  as  a  breast-pin. 

"Hand  painted,"  she  used  to  explain.  And  always 
added:  "Creoles  are  all  white."  Which  was  true.  But, 
when  quarrelling  with  his  wife,  Odell  pretended  to  believe 
otherwise. 

Rummaging  through  Fanny's  effects  a  day  or  two  after 
her  marriage,  Mazie  discovered  a  painted  fan,  a  mother-of- 
pearl  card-case,  and  this  breast-pin.  She  carried  the  minia- 
ture to  Odell. 

"Looks  like  baby,"  she  explained,  with  her  care- free 
laugh. 

"She'll  be  lucky  if  she  favours  that  pitcher,"  said  Odell. 


18  E  R  I  S 

*'But  like  as  not  she'll  take  after  Fanny."  He  was  wrong 
in  his  guess. 

When  Eris  was  five  her  resemblance  to  the  miniature  had 
become  marked.  And  Mazie's  boys  looked  like  their  mother 
and  father. 

On  Saturday  nights,  after  immersing  her  own  unwilling 
brunette  brats  in  the  weekly  bath,  Mazie  found  the  slim 
white  body  of  little  Eris  an  ever-increasing  amusement  and 
a  pique  to  her  curioftity^  The  child's  frail  yet  healthy  sym- 
metry, the  fine  skin,  delicate,  perfect  limbs,  lovely  little 
hands  and  feet,  remained  perennial  sources  of  mirth  and 
surprise  to  this  robust  young  woman  who  was  equally 
healthy,  but  built  on  a  big,  colourful,  vigorous  plan. 

Solid  and  large  of  limb  and  haunch,  deep-bosomed, 
ruddy-skinned,  the  young  stepmother  always  bred  true  to 
type.  Her  sons  were  sons  of  the  soil  from  birth.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  about  her  offspring.  What  wasn't  Lister 
was  Odell.     They  belonged  to  the  land. 

But  when  Mazie  looked  at  her  husband  and  looked  at  the 
child,  Eris — and  when  she  remembered  Fanny — then  she 
wondered  and  was  inclined  to  smile.  And  she  was  content 
that  her  sons'  thick,  sturdy  bodies  and  slanting,  black  eyes 
so  plainly  advertised  the  stock  they  came  from.  Utility. 
Health.     Strength. 

Fanny  had  had  a  pink  nose.  Even  a  Guernsey  ought  to 
have  one.  But  the  nose  of  Eris  was  snow  white.  To 
what  stock  did  this  child  throw  back  ? 

When  Eris  was  seven  she  was  sent  to  the  village  school, 
leading  her  eldest  stepbrother  thither  by  the  hand.  Both 
were  scared  and  tearful.  Nobody  went  with  little  Eris  to 
mitigate  the  ordeal ;  and  she  was  a  most  sensitive  child. 

Hers  had  been  a  deathless  curiosity  since  she  was  old 
enough  to  ask  her  first  question.  An  unquenchable  desire 
for  information  seemed  to  possess  her.  Her  eternal,  "Will 
you  tell  me  why?"  became  a  nuisance. 


E  R  I  S  19 

"Dang  it,  send  her  to  school!"  shouted  Odell  at  last. 
And  that  was  how. 

At  her  small  desk,  rigid,  bewildered,  terribly  intent  on 
the  first  teacher  in  human  form  she  had  ever  gazed  upon, 
she  found  herself  on  the  verge  of  tears.  But,  before  she 
could  dissolve,  her  brother  forestalled  her,  bursting  into 
vigorous  yells,  bawling  like  a  calf ;  and  would  not  be  com- 
forted. Which  allowed  Eris  no  time  for  private  grief 
while  wiping  his  eyes  with  her  pinafore. 

Noonday  recess  and  lunch  baskets  and  the  wildly  gyrating 
horde  of  children  let  loose  on  a  sandy  playground  ended  the 
first  encounter  between  Eris  Odell  and  the  great  god  Educa- 
tion in  His  Local  Temple  at  White  Hills  Village. 

Eris  learned  little  in  school.  There  is  little  to  learn  in 
American  schools.  No  nation  is  more  illiterate.  And  in 
the  sort  of  school  she  went  to  the  ignorant  are  taught  by  the 
half  educated. 

None  of  her  teachers  could  speak  English  as  it  should  be 
spoken.  In  their  limited  vocabulary  there  was  no  room  for 
choice  of  words.  Perhaps  that  was  why  negatives  were 
doubled  now  and  then. 

As  for  the  rest,  she  was  stuffed  with  falsified  history  and 
unessential  geographical  items ;  she  was  taught  to  read  after 
a  fashion,  and  to  spell,  and  to  juggle  figures.  There  was  a 
nature  class,  too,  full  of  misinformation.  And  once  an 
owlish,  elderly  man  lectured  on  physiology;  and  told  them 
in  a  low  and  solemn  voice  that  "there  is  two  sects  in  the 
phenonemy  of  natur,  and  little  boys  are  made  diffrunt  to 
httle  girls." 

That  ended  the  lecture,  leaving  every  little  boy  and  little 
girl  mad  with  unsatisfied  curiosity,  and  some  of  the  older 
children  slightly  uncomfortable. 

But  The  Great  American  Ass  dominates  this  splendid 
land  of  ours.  He  knows.  He'll  tell  the  world.  And 
that's  that — as  Odell  was  accustomed  to  say.     And  early  in 


20  ERIS 

her  career  little  Eris  caught  the  cant  phrase  of  finality  from 
her  father,  and  incorporated  it  with  her  increasing  lingual 
equipment. 

When  one  of  the  boys  tried  to  kiss  her,  she  kicked  his 
shins.  "And  that's  thut!"  she  added  breathlessly,  smooth- 
ing out  her  rumpled  pinafore. 

In  Mazie  she  had  a  stepmother  who  made  no  difference 
between  Eris  and  her  own  progeny.  She  kissed  them  all 
alike  at  bedtime;  dosed  them  when  necessary,  comforted 
their  sorrows  with  stock  reassurances  from  a  limited  vocab- 
ulary, darned,  sewed,  mended,  washed  for  all  alike. 

Mazie  gave  her  children  and  her  husband  all  she  had  time 
to  give — all  she  had  the  capacity  to  give — the  kindly,  cheer- 
ful offices  and  understanding  of  a  healthy  female. 

Whitewater  Queen  was  as  good  a  mother.  Both  lacked 
imagination.     But  Whitewater  Queen  didn't  need  any. 

For  a  time,  however,  the  knowledge  imbibed  at  school 
nourished  Eris,  although  there  were  few  vitamines  in  the 
feed. 

When  she  was  thirteen  her  brothers — twelve,  eleven,  ten 
and  nine — alternately  bullied  her,  deferred  to  her,  or  ran 
bawling  to  her  with  their  troubles. 

When  she  was  fourteen  the  world  met  its  own  weird  at 
Armageddon.  The  old  order  of  things  began  to  change. 
A  new  earth  and  a  newly  interpreted  Heaven  replaced  the 
"former  things"  which  had  "passed  away." 

At  eighteen  Eris  looked  out  over  the  smoking  debris  of 
"former  things" — ^gazed  out  of  limpid  grey  eyes  upon  "a 
new  Heaven  and  a  new  Earth" ;  and  saw  the  cloudy,  gigan- 
tic spectre  of  all-that-had-once-been  receding,  dissolving, 
vanishing  from  the  world  where  it  had  reigned  so  tyran- 
nically and  so  long. 

About  that  time  she  dreamed,  for  the  first  time,  that 
dream  which  so  often  re-occurred  in  after  years — ^that  she 


E  R  I  S  «1 

stood  at  her  open  window,  naked,  winged,  restless  for  flight 
to  some  tremendous  height  where  dwelt  the  aged  god  of 
Wisdom  all  alone,  cutting  open  a  human  heart  that  was 
still  faintly  pulsating. 

At  eighteen — ^the  year  the  world  war  was  ended — Eris 
"graduated." 

She  wrote  a  little  act  for  herself,  designed  her  own  cos- 
tume, made  it,  acted,  sang,  and  danced  the  part.  It  was 
the  story  of  a  poor  girl  who  prays  for  two  things — a  pair  of 
wings  so  that  she  may  fly  to  the  moon,  and  a  new  hat  for  the 
journey.  Suddenly  she  discovers  a  new  hat  in  her  hands. 
The  next  instant  two  beautiful  little  wings  sprout  on  her 
shoulders.  Instantly  she  takes  scissors  and  snips  off  the 
wings  and  trims  her  new  hat  with  them.  Ready  for  her 
journey,  suddenly  she  realises  that  now  she  cannot  fly. 
She  tears  the  wings  from  the  hat.  Too  late.  She  can't 
fasten  them  to  her  shoulders  again.  They  flutter  to  her 
feet.  She  falls  on  her  knees  in  a  passion  of  tears.  The 
moon  rises,  grinning. 

It  was  a  vast  success — this  little  act  of  Eris  Odell — and 
while  its  subtler  intent  was  quite  lost  on  the  honest  folk  of 
White  Hills  Village,  the  story  itself  was  so  obvious  and 
Eris  did  it  so  prettily  that  even  her  father  grunted  approval. 

That  evening  he  promised  her  the  next  heifer-calf  for 
her  own.  If  it  proved  a  good  one  the  sale  of  it  should  pro- 
vide a  nice  nest-egg  for  Eris  when  she  married. 

The  next  heifer-calf  promised  well.  Eris  named  her 
White  Iris  and  she  was  so  registered. 

In  the  yearling  pure-breeds  she  was  first  at  the  County 
Fair.  But  Eris  refused  to  sell.  At  the  State  Fair  White 
Iris  beat  every  Guernsey  and  every  other  heifer,  pure- 
breed  and  grade, 

Brookvale  Manor  offered  her  three  thousand  dollars. 
Odell  made  her  take  it,  and  put  the  money  into  the  local 
bank.     So,  with  tears  blinding  her  grey  eyes,  Eris  sold 


ftSt  ERIS 

White  Iris  out  of  the  county.  And  would  not  be  com- 
forted even  by  the  brand  new  cheque-book  sent  to  her  by 
the  cashier  of  the  White  Hills  Bank. 

The  account,  however,  was  in  her  father's  name. 

Now,  the  horizon  of  Eris  Odell  had  narrowed  as  her 
sphere  of  activity  dwindled  after  graduation. 

Whitewater  Farms  became  her  world.  Within  its  con- 
fines lay  her  duties  and  diversions,  both  clearly  defined. 

They  were  her  heritage.  No  loop-holes  offered  escape — 
excepting  marriage.  And  that  way  out  was  merely  the  way 
in  to  another  and  similar  prison  the  boundary  of  which  was 
a  barbed  wire  fence,  and  its  mathematical  centre  a  manure 
pit 

She  continued  to  dream  of  wings.  An  immense,  inde- 
finable longing  possessed  her  in  waking  hours.  But  she 
was  only  one  of  the  youthful,  excited  millions,  waking  after 
aeons  to  the  first  instincts  that  had  ruled  the  human 
race. 

It  was  the  restlessness  of  the  world's  youth  that  stirred 
her — Modem  Youth  opening  millions  of  clear  young  eyes  to 
gaze  upon  the  wonders  of  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  earth, 
and  mad  to  explore  it  all  from  zenith  to  depths — sky,  sea, 
land,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth.  Youth,  suddenly 
crazed  by  an  overwhelming  desire  for  Truth,  after  aeons 
and  aeons  of  lies. 

Explore,  venture,  achieve,  live— demand  Truth,  exact  it, 
face  it,  and  know! — ^the  mighty,  voiceless  cry  of  the  World's 
Youth — claiming  freedom  to  seek,  liberty  to  live,  fearless, 
untrammelled,  triumphant.  A  terrible  indictment  of  Age, 
and  of  those  age-governed  aeons  which  forever  have  passed 
away. 

Already  the  older,  duller  generation  caught  the  vast  vibra- 
tion of  young  hearts  beating  to  arms,  young  voices  swelling 
the  tremulous,  universal  cry  of  insurgence,  a  clear,  ceaseless, 


ERis  «a 

sea-like  sound  of  laughter  proclaiming  the  death  of  Sham — 
ringing  an  endless,  silvery  requiem. 

Odell  shoved  up  his  spectacles  and  lowered  the  newspaper 
to  glance  at  Eris. 

"What  say?"  he  repeated  fretfully. 

"I'd  like  to  study  dancing." 

"Can't  you  dance  ?  You  go  to  enough  socials  and  show- 
ers 'n'one  thing  'n'other." 

"I  mean — stage  dancing." 

"Stage!"  he  thundered.     "Be  you  crazy?" 

"Why,  Eris,  how  you  talk!"  said  her  stepmother,  too 
astounded  to  laugh. 

"I  could  go  to  New  York  and  work  in  a  store  by  day; 
and  take  stage-dancing  lessons  evenings,"  murmured  the 
girl.     "I  want  to  be  somebody." 

"You  stay  here  and  do  your  chores  and  try  to  act  as  if 
you  ain't  a  little  loonatic!"  shouted  Odell.  "I'm  sicka 
hearing  about  the  capers  and  kickups  of  young  folks  now- 
aday. Them  gallivantins  don't  go  in  my  house.  Fm  sicka 
reading  about  'em,  too.     And  that's  that!" 

"After  all,"  said  Eris,  "why  do  I  have  to  do  what  I  don't 
care  to  do?" 

"Dang  it,"  retorted  her  father,  "didn't  you  never  hear  of 
dooty?     What  d'they  teach  you  in  school?" 

"Nothing  much,"  she  replied  listlessly.  "Did  you  always 
want  to  be  a  farmer,  daddy?" 

"Hey?" 

"Are  you  a  farmer  because  you  wanted  to  be?  Or  did 
you  want  to  be  something  else?" 

"What  dinged  trash  you  talk,"  he  said,  disgusteti.  "1 
didn't  wanta  be  a  blacksmith  or  I'da  been  one." 

"Why  can't  /  be  what  I'd  like  to  be?"  Will  you  tell  me 
why?" 

Odell,  speechless,  resumed  his  newspaper.     It  was  nearly 


24  E  R I  S 

nine  o'clock  and  he  hadn't  read  half  the  local  news  and  none 
of  the  column  devoted  to  the  Grange. 

Eris  looked  wistfully  at  him,  loitering  still  in  the  door- 
way, slim,  grey-eyed,  undeveloped. 

Her  stepmother  laughed  at  her:  "Notions,"  she  said. 
"Don't  you  know  you'd  go  to  rack  and  rooin  that  way? 
You  go  to  bed,  Eris.  .  .  .  There's  fresh  ginger  snaps  in  the 
pantry." 


CHAPTER  III 

UNTIL  the  Great  War  turned  the  world  upside  down, 
Whitewater  Farms  made  money  after  Odell  married 
Ed  Lister's  daughter. 

Shortage  of  labour  during  the  war  cut  into  profits ;  taxes 
wiped  them  out;  the  ugly,  Bolshevik  attitude  of  labour 
after  the  war  caused  a  deficit. 

It  was  the  sullen  inertia  of  the  mob,  conscious  of  power. 
Men  did  not  care  whether  they  worked  at  all.  If  they 
chose  to  work,  mills  and  factories  would  pay  them  enough 
in  three  days  to  permit  them  to  remain  idle  the  remainder 
of  the  week.  No  farmer  could  pay  the  swollen  wages  de- 
manded for  field  labour,  and  survive  financially. 

Every  village  was  full  of  idle  louts  who  sneered  at  offered 
employment. 

Fruit  rotted  in  orchards,  grain  remained  uncut,  cattle 
stood  neglected.  The  great  American  loafer  leered  at  the 
situation.  The  very  name  of  Labour  stank.  It  stinks  still. 
The  Great  American  Ass  has  made  the  term  a  stench  in  the 
nostrils  of  civilisation. 

The  next  year  mills  and  factories  began  to  lay  off  labour. 
Odell  and  Lister  scraped  together  a  few  sulky  field  hands, 
mainly  incompetents,  men  who  had  spent  all  their  wages. 
Fields  were  sullenly  tilled,  crops  gathered,  cattle  cared  for. 

Except  for  profiteers,  reaction  had  set  in.  War  profli- 
gacy, asinine  finance,  crushing  taxes  already  were  doing 
their  work. 

Rather  than  pay  for  feed,  farmers  sold  their  stock.  The 
demand  for  pork  started  everybody  hog-raising.      Prices 

25 


£6  E  R  I  S 

fell;  loss  followed.      Then  stagnation.      It  was  the  bitter 
aftermath  of  war — the  deluge.     Dead  water. 

Only  one  star  of  hope  glimmered  over  the  waste, — the 
New  Administration. 

Spring  was  a  month  early  that  year.  Odell,  at  sixty, 
unimpaired  by  pie  and  the  great  American  frying  pan,  his 
gaitered  legs  planted  sturdily  in  the  new  grass,  looked  out 
over  his  domain  and  chewed  a  clover  stem. 

"I  ain't  afraid,"  he  said  to  Lister.  "I'm  going  the  hull 
hog.     Every  acre." 

"Where's  your  help?"  remonstrated  Lister. 

"I  got  'em." 

"Some  on  'em  is  quitters.  They'll  lay  down  on  yeh, 
Elmer." 

Odell  spat  out  the  clover  stem:  "Every  acre,  Ed!"  he 
repeated.     "And  six  cows  on  test." 

"We  ain't  got  the  help " 

"Six  cows,"  growled  Odell ;  "White  Lady,  Snow  Queen, 
Silver  Maid,  Thistledown,  Milkweed  Lass,  and  Whitewater 
Lily.  ...  I  gotta  make  money.  I'm  aimin'  to  and  I'm 
a-going  to.     I  got  four  sons.     And  that's  that !" 

"Elmer " 

"Awright.  I  know  all  what  you  gonna  say,  Ed.  But 
where  does  it  get  you  to  go  around  with  a  face  a  foot  long? 
How's  things  to  start  unless  somebody  starts  'em?  Aw- 
right, prices  is  bad.  You  can't  sell  a  pure-breed  caaf  in  this 
dinged  country.  There  isn't  no  market  for  a  fancy  heifer. 
Everybody's  breedin'  Holsteins  'n'sloshin'  around  after 
grades.  Awright;  nobody  wants  Guernsey  quality;  every- 
body wants  Holstein  bulk  'n'watery  milk  'n'everything.  I 
know.  And  my  answer  is,  every  acre,  Ed ;  and  six  cows  on 
test ;  and  higher  prices  on  every  danged  caaf  that's  droi)ped. 

"If  I  sell  a  heifer  it's  a  favour  to  be  paid  for  through  the 
nose.  And  I  feed  every  bull-caaf  and  no  vealin'  this  year. 
Enough  hogs  to  turn  out  till  October;  not  another  danged 


E  R I S  «7 

snout!  If  the  Bank  don't  see  me  through  I'll  blow  it  up. 
Now,  g'wan  and  make  your  plans." 

He  went  into  the  creamery  where  his  wife  stood  beside 
the  separator,  watching  a  cat  lap  up  some  spilled  cream. 

"Your  pa's  timid,  Mazie,"  he  said.  "I  tell  him  I  cal'late 
t' start  under  full  steam.     What  do  you  say?" 

She  laughed :  "Pa's  got  notions.  He  alius  was  a  mite 
slow.     I  guess  you  know  best,  Elmer." 

"We  all  gotta  work,"  he  said.     "That  means  Eris,  too." 

"She  alius  helps  me,"  remarked  Mazie,  simply. 

"I  dunno  what  she  does,"  grunted  Odell;  " — sets  a  hen 
or  two,  fools  around  the  incubators,  digs  up  a  spoonful  of 
scratch- feed — ^what  does  she  do,  anyhow?" 

"The  child  mends  and  irons " 

"When  she  ain't  readin'  or  tendin'  her  flowers  or  moonin' 
'round  the  woods  'n'fields,"  retorted  Odell.  "Eris  reckons 
she's  too  fine  a  lady  for  farm  folk,  I  guess.  I  want  her  to 
keep  busy.     And  that's  that." 

"Somebody's  got  to  tend  the  flowers,"  remonstrated 
Mazie.  "You  don't  want  we  should  have  no  posy  bed, 
Elmer — like  poor  folks  down  to  the  Holler,  do  you?" 

"I  can  git  along  'n'eat  dinner  without  posies.  Why  don't 
Erie  read  the  Grange  Journal?  Oh,  no;  it's  fancy  novels 
and  highfalutin'  books  she  studies  onto.  And  she's  alius 
cuttin'  out  these  here  fashions  into  these  here  magazines 
with  coloured  pitchers  outside.  Did  you  ever  see  Eris 
studyin'  into  a  cook-book  ?  Or  a  seed  catalogue  ?  Or  the 
Guernsey  Cattle  Magazuie?     Or  the  Breeder's  Guide " 

"You  let  her  be,"  said  Mazie,  good-naturedly.  "The 
housework's  done  and  that's  all  you  need  to  know.  She  can 
cook  and  make  a  bed  if  she's  a  mind  to." 

"Mind,"  growled  Odell,  " — what's  a  girl  want  of  a  mind? 
All  she  uses  it  for  is  to  plan  how  to  play-act  on  the  stage  or 
gallivant  into  moving  pitchers.  All  she  thinks  about  is  how 
to  git  to  New  York  to  hunt  up  some  fancy  job  so  she  can 
paint  her  face  and  dance  in  bare  legs •" 


jes  E  R I  s 

"Now,  Elmer,  Eris  is  too  smart  to  act  foolish ;  and  she's 
educated  real  well.  You  liked  to  see  her  act  in  school,  an<i 
you  thought  she  danced  nicely.     She's  only  a  child  yet " 

"She's  twenty!" 

"She's  no  more'n  sixteen  in  her  way  of  thinking,  Elmer. 
She's  a  good  girl." 

"I  didn't  say  she's  bad.  But  she's  twenty,  and  she  ought 
to  be  more  help  to  us.  And  she  ought  to  quit  readin'  and 
moonin'  and  dreamin'  and  lazin' " 

"You  quit  your  lazin',  too,"  laughed  Mazie,  setting  a  pan 
of  cream  in  the  ice  chest.  "Why  don't  you  go  down  to  the 
barn  and  ring  that  new  herd  bull  ?  You  can't  get  him  into 
the  paddock  without  a  staff  any  more.  And  if  you  don't 
watch  out  Whitewater  Chieftain  will  hurt  somebody.  .  .  . 
'NTH  be  a  widow." 

As  Odell  went  out  the  dairy  door,  preoccupied  with  the 
ticklish  job  before  him,  he  met  Eris  with  her  arms  full  of 
new  kittens." 

"Mitzi's,"  she  explained,  "aren't  they  too  cunning, 
daddy?     I  hope  they're  not  to  be  drowned." 

"I  ain't  runnin'  a  cat- farm,"  remarked  OdelL  "Did  you 
mend  my  canvas  jacket?" 

"Yes;  it's  on  your  bed." 

"Did  you  coop  them  broody  hens  ?     I  bet  you  didn't" 

"Yes.     There  are  seventeen  in  three  coops." 

"Housework  done?" 

"Yes." 

"Awright  Why  don't  you  ^tt  the  cook-book  and  set  in 
the  hammock  a  spell  ?" 

The  girl  laughed:     "Don't  you  like  mother's  cooking?" 

"S'all  right  for  'nxe.  But  I  don't  cal'late  your  mother's 
going  to  cook  for  the  fella  you  hitch  up  with." 

Eris  turned  up  her  nose :  "Don't  worry.  I  shan't  ever 
marry.  Not  any  boy  in  this  town,  anyway.  Probably  I'll 
never  marry.  .  .  .  I'll  not  have  time,"  she  added,  half  to 
herself. 


ERIS  ftl9 

Odell,  who  was  going,  stopped. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"An  actress  ought  not  to  marry.  She  ought  to  give  every 
moment  to  her  art,"  explained  the  girl  naively. 

"Is — that — so?  Well,  you  can  chase  that  idea  outa  your 
head,  my  girl,  because  you  ain't  never  going  to  be  no  actress. 
And  that's  that!" 

"Some  day,"  said  Eris,  with  a  flushed  smile,  "I  shall 
follow  my  own  judgment  and  give  myself  to  art.  .  .  .  And 
that's  thatr 

As  they  stood  there,  father  and  daughter,  confronting 
each  other  in  the  pale  April  sunshine,  the  great  herd  bull 
bellowed  from  the  cattle-bam,  shaking  the  still  air  with  his 
thunderous  reverberations.    He  was  to  be  shot  that  evening. 

Eris  sighed :  "He  misses  his  companions,"  she  said, 
"and  he  tells  us  so.  .  .  .  Poor  White  Lightning.  .  .  .  And 
I,  also,  miss  the  companionship  of  all  I  have  never  known. 
.  .  .  Some  day  I  shall  tell  you  so.  ...  I  hope  you'll  under- 
stand." 

"You  talk  like  a  piece  in  a  magazine,"  said  Odell;  "you 
better  quit  reading  them  danged  love  stories  and  movin' 
pitcher  magazines  and  study  into  the  Farm  Journal/' 

"You'd  be  very  proud  of  me  if  I  became  a  great  actress," 
she  said  seriously. 

"I'd  be  a  danged  sight  prouder  if  you  was  a  great  cook," 
he  grunted.  And  he  went  toward  the  cattle-bam,  spinning 
the  patent  self-piercing  nose  ring  on  his  horny  forefinger. 

Eris  called  after  him:  "Have  you  got  to  shoot  Light- 
ning?" 

"Yes,  I  gotta  beef  him.     He's  no  good  any  more." 

So  the  great  herd  bull,  like  all  "Former  Things,"  was 
doomed  to  "pass  away." 

As  the  Dionysia  became  the  Mithraic  Rites,  so  was 
taurian  glory  doomed  to  pass.  ...  A  bullet  where  Aldeb- 
aran  shows  the  way.     The  way  of  all  bulls. 


80  ERIS 

Neither  Odell  nor  Eris  had  ever  heard  of  Aldebaran. 
And  the  tombs  of  the  Magi  were  no  more  tightly  sealed  than 
the  mind  of  the  father.  But  the  child's  mind  hid  a  little 
lamp  unlighted.  A  whisper  might  reveal  to  her  Aldebaran 
shining  in  the  midnight  heavens.  Or  the  Keys  of  Life  and 
Death  hanging  on  the  Rosy  Cross.  .  .  . 

The  bull  died  at  the  appointed  hour.  Eris  stood  in  her 
bedroom  closing  both  ears  with  trembling  palms. 

She  did  not  hear  the  shot.  Mazie  found  her  there; 
laughed  at  her  good-naturedly. 

Eris'  lips  formed  the  words :    "Is  he  dead?" 

"My  dear,  he's  Polack  beef  by  now." 

Gloria  tauri — gloria  mundi.  But  whatever  ends  always 
begins  ag^n. 

What  was  the  DIonysia  is  now  *RosicrucIan.  .  .  .  and 
shall  again  be  something  else.  .  .  .  and  always  the  same. 

As  for  the  Bull  of  Mithra — ^and  Mithra,  too — bull-calves 
are  bom  every  day.  And  there  are  a  million  million  suns  in 
the  making. 

It's  only  the  Old  Order  that  changes,  not  what  orders  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BULLS  die;  men  die;  the  old  order  dies, — slowly 
sometimes,  sometimes  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
The  change  came  swiftly  upon  Eris ;  passed  more  swiftly 
still,  leaving  no  outward  trace  visible.  But  when  it  had 
passed,  the  heart  and  mind  of  Eris  were  altered.  All 
doubt,  all  hesitation  fled.  She  understood  that  now  the 
road  to  the  stars  was  open,  and  that,  one  day,  she  would  do 
what  she  had  been  bom  to  do. 

The  World  War  was  partly  responsible  for  the  affair. 
The  dye  situation  in  the  United  States  resulted.  In  White- 
water Mills,  both  dyes  and  mordants  remained  unsatis- 
factory. The  mill  chemist  could  do  nothing  and  they  let 
him  go. 

Where  cotton  was  used  in  shoddy  combination  with 
wool,  permanency  of  colour  scarcely  mattered — the  poor 
always  getting  the  dirty  end  of  everything  in  a  nation  that 
has  always  laughed  at  a  swindle. 

But  before  the  war,  Whitewater  Mills  had  built  a  sepa- 
rate plant  for  fine  hosiery,  lisle  and  silk,  and  had  specialised 
in  mauves  and  blues — fast,  unfading,  beautiful  colours,  the 
secret  of  which  remained  in  Germany, 

Now,  desiring  to  resume,  and  unable  to  import,  the 
directors  of  the  mill  sent  a  delegation  to  New  York  to  find 
out  what  could  be  done. 

There  the  delegates  discovered,  dug  out,  and  engaged  a 
chemist  named  E.  Stuart  Graydon. 

It  appeared  that  the  secrets  of  German  dyes  and  mordants 
were  known  to  Mr.  Graydon.     How  they  became  known  to 

31 


82  E  R I  S 

him  he  explained  very  frankly  and  eloquently.  Candour, 
an  engaging  smile,  i>ale  smooth  features  full  of  pale  bluish 
shadows, — these  and  a  trim  figure  neatly  clothed  made  up 
the  ensemble  of  Mr.  Graydon. 

Permanent  colour  was  his  specialty.  Anyway,  his  long, 
steady  fingers  were  permanently  stained  with  acid  and  nico- 
tine. He  was  employed  by  a  photographer  when  they  dis- 
covered him.  Or,  to  be  accurate,  he  discovered  them  at 
their  third-class  hotel  on  Broadway.  .  .  .  And  never  left 
them  until  he  had  signed  a  contract. 

It  was  after  church  that  somebody  introduced  E.  Stuart 
Graydon  to  Eris. 

He  walked  home  with  the  family;  and  his  talent  for 
general  conversation  earned  him  an  invitation  to  remain  to 
midday  dirmer. 

Quiet,  convincing  eloquence  was  his  asset.  There  ap- 
peared to  be  no  subject  with  which  he  was  not  reasonably 
familiar.  His,  also,  was  that  terrible  gift  for  familiarity 
of  every  description ;  he  became  a  friend  overnight,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family  in  a  week.  He  was  what  Broadway  calls 
"quick  study,"  never  risking  "going  stale"  by  "letter  per- 
fect" preparation  for  an  opening. 

He  took  a  deep  interest  in  Guernsey  breeding.  But 
Odell  did  the  talking.  That  was^how  Graydon  acquired  a 
reputation  for  an  astonishing  versatility; — ^he  started  the 
subject  and  kept  it  kindled  while  others  did  the  talking. 
And  in  ten  minutes  he  was  able  to  converse  upon  the  theme 
with  a  skilful  and  convincing  fluency  entirely  irresistible. 

After  dinner  Mazie  showed  him  Fanny's  miniature  on 
ivory. 

He  smilingly  sketched  for  the  family  a  brief  history  of 
miniature  painting.  It  happened  that  he  was  minutely 
familiar  with  all  methods  and  all  branches  of  Art.     Indeed, 


ERIS  S3 

that  was  how  the  entire  affair  started.  And  Art  accounted 
for  the  acid  stains,  also. 

To  Eris,  Art  included  the  drama,  and  all  that  her  ardent 
mind  desired.  It  took  Mr.  Graydon  about  five  minutes  to 
discover  this.  And  of  course  it  transpired  that  he  knew 
everything  connected  with  the  drama,  spoken  and  si- 
lent. 

The  next  evening  he  came  to  supper.  He  talked  cattle, 
ensilage,  rotation  of  crops,  sub-soils,  inoculation,  fertili- 
sers, with  Odell  until  the  hypnotised  farmer  was  loth  to  let 
him  go. 

He  talked  to  Mazie  about  household  economy,  labour- 
saving  devices,  sanitary  disposal  plants,  water  systems, 
bleaches — ^with  which  he  was  dreadfully  familiar — furni- 
ture polish,  incubators. 

With  the  boys  he  discussed  guns  and  ammunition,  traps 
and  trapping,  commercial  education,  the  relation  of  labour 
to  capital,  baseball  in  the  State  League,  ready-made  cloth- 
ing, the  respective  merits  of  pointers,  setters,  bull  terriers 
and  Airedales. 

Hypnotised  yawns  protested  against  the  bed  hour  in  the 
household  of  Odell.  Nobody  desired  to  retire.  The  spell 
held  like  a  trap. 

As  for  Eris,  she  decided  to  stay  in  the  sitting  room  with 
Mr.  Graydon  when  the  family's  yawns  at  last  started  them 
blinking  bedward. 

Odell,  yawning  frightfully,  got  into  his  night-shirt  and 
then  into  bed ;  and  lay  opening  and  shutting  his  eyes  like  an 
owl  on  the  pillow  while  Mazie,  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
did  her  hair  in  curl  papers. 

"A  nice,  polite,  steady  young  man,"  she  said,  nodding  at 
Odell's  reflection  in  the  looking  glass.  "My  sakes  alive, 
Elmer,  what  an  education  he's  got !" 

"Stew  Graydon  knows  a  thing  or  two,  I  guess,"  yawned 
Odell.  "You  gotta  be  mighty  spry  to  get  a  holt  onto  that 
young  fella." 


34  E  R I  S 

"I've  a  notion  they  pay  him  a  lot  down  to  the  mill,"  sug- 
gested Mazie. 

"You  can't  expec'  to  hire  a  Noo  York  man  like  that  fer 
nothin',"  agreed  Odell.  "He's  smart,  he  is.  And  there's 
alius  a  market  fer  real  smartness.  Like  as  not  that  young 
fella  will  find  himself  a  rich  man  in  ten  years.      I  guesso." 

A  silence ;  Mazie  busy  with  her  lustrous  hair, — the  plump, 
rosy,  vigorous  incarnation  of  matronly  health. 

In  the  mirror  she  caught  Elmer's  sleepy  eye  and  laughed, 
displaying  her  white  teeth. 

"You  think  he  kinda  favours  Eris  ?"  she  asked. 

"Hey?" 

"I  don't  know  why  else  he  come  to  supper.'* 

"He  come  to  supper  to  talk  farmin'  with  me,'*  said  Odell 
gruffly. 

"Maybe.     Only  I  guess  not,"  laughed  Mazie. 

"Well,  why  did  he  come,  then?  He  wanted  I  should 
show  him  the  new  separator  and  them  samples  of  cork- 
brick.  He's  a  chemist,  ain't  he?  He's  int-rested  in  cork- 
brick  and  separators  'n'  all  like  that." 

Mazie  twisted  a  curl  paper  around  a  thick  brown  tress. 

"When  he  talked  about  the  theatre  and  acting,"  she  re- 
marked, "did  you  notice  how  Eris  acted?" 

"She  gawked  at  him,"  grunted  Odell.  "She'd  better  get 
that  pitcher  idee  outa  her  fool  head, — lazin'  around  readin' 
them  pitcher  magazines  'n'  novels,  'n'  moonin  all  over  the 
place  instid  of  findin'  chores  to  occupy  her  'n'  doin' 
them " 

"Oh,  hush,"  interrupted  Mazie;  "you  talk  and  take  on 
awful  foolish,  Elmer.  When  Eris  marries  some  bright, 
steady  boy,  all  that  trash  in  her  head  will  go  into  the  slop- 
pail." 

Odell  scowled : 

"Well,  why  don't  she  marry,  then  ?  She  ain't  no  help  to 
you " 

"She  is!     Hush  up  your  head.      You'll  miss  her,  too, 


E  R  I  S  85 

when  she  marries,  and  some  strange  man  takes  her  away. 
I  guess  I  know  who  aims  to  do  it,  too." 

"Well,  who  aims  to  do  it ?  Hey?  She  don't  have  nothin' 
to  say  to  our  Whitewater  boys.  She  alius  acts  proud  and 
highmighty  and  uppish.  Dan  Bums  he  come  sparkin'  her 
'n'  she  stayed  in  her  room  and  wouldn't  even  come  down  to 
supper.  'N'  there  was  Clay  Wallace,  'n'  Buddy  Mor- 
gan  " 

"It  looks  like  she's  willing  to  be  sparked  to-night,  don't 
it?"  said  Mazie,  with  an  odd  little  laugh. 

Elmer  rose  on  one  elbow:  "Say,  you  don't  think  he 
wants  our  Eris,  do  yeh?" 

"Why  not?    Isn't  Eris  good  enough  for  any  man?" 

"Well,  well,  dang  it  all,  Stew  Graydon  seems  diflf-runt. 
.  .  .  He's  too  educated  'n'  stylish  for  plain  folks — 'n'  he's 
got  a  big  position  in  the  mill.      He  don't  want  our  Eris " 

"Why  not?"  repeated  Mazie. 

Odell  shook  his  frowsy  head:  "He'll  want  a  rich  girl. 
Eris  hain't  got  only  that  heifer  money.  I  can't  give  her 
more'n  a  mite " 

"That  don't  count  with  me,  "Elmer."  She  flushed,  " — it 
didn't  count  with  you." 

"Well,  you  was  worth  consid'ble  more'n  cash,"  he 
grunted. 

"So's  any  girl — if  a  boy  likes  her." 

"You  think  a  smart  man  like  Stew  Graydon ^" 

"How  do  I  know?"  drawled  Mazie.  "She's  downstairs 
yet  with  him,  ain't  she  ?  I  never  knew  her  to  act  that  way 
before.     Nor  you,  either." 

She  never  had  "acted  that  way  before." 

The  drowning  swimmer  and  his  straw — ^Eris  and  the 
first  man  she  ever  had  met  who  had  been  actually  in  touch 
with  the  mystery  of  the  moving  pictures — ^that  was  the 
situation. 

For  Graydon's  personality  she  had  only  the  virginal  in- 


86  ERIS 

terest  which  is  reassured  by  a  pleasant  manner,  a  pleasing 
voice,  and  the  trim,  neat  inconspicuousness  of  face,  figure, 
and  apparel  which  invites  neither  criticism  nor  particular 
admiration, — nor  alarm. 

But  for  his  education,  his  knowledge,  his  wisdom,  his 
fluency, — above  all  for  his  evident  sympathy  and  ability  to 
imderstand  her  desire, — she  had  an  excited  and  passionate 
need. 

As  he  talked,  he  looked  her  over,  carefully,  cautiously — 
preoccupied  with  odd  and  curious  ideas  even  while  con- 
versing about  other  things. 

That  evening,  when  taking  leave,  he  pressed  her  slender 
fingers  together,  gently,  not  alarming  her — scarcely  even 
awaking  self -consciousness.  He  was  always  the  artist, 
first  of  all. 

After  a  month,  even  Elmer  understood  that  Graydon  was 
"sparking"  Kris. 

And,  from  the  time  that  Eris  first  was  made  to  under- 
stand that  fact  she  lived  in  a  continuous,  confused  dream, 
through  the  unreality  of  which  sometimes  she  was  aware  of 
her  own  heart  beating  with  excitement. 

He  had  said  to  her,  one  evening,  after  the  family  had 
gone  to  bed,  that  the  stage  was  her  vocation  and  that  God 
himself  must  have  ordained  that  she  should,  one  day,  tri- 
imiph  there. 

She  listened  as  in  a  blessed  trance.  All  around  her  the 
night  air  grew  heavy  with  the  scent  of  honeysuckle.  A 
moon  was  shining.  The  whippoorwill's  breathless  cry  came 
from  the  snake-fence  hedge. 

When  he  had  had  his  mental  will  of  her — excited  her 
almost  to  blissful  tears,  soothed  her,  led  her  on,  deftly, 
eloquently — he  took  her  smooth  hand  of  a  child.  All  set 
for  the  last  act,  he  drew  the  girl  against  his  shoulder,  taking 
plenty  of  time. 


ERIS  97 

Her  head  was  still  swimming-  with  his  eloquence.  Hope 
intoxicated  her.  His  lips  meant  nothing  on  her  cheek — ^but 
her  mind  was  all  a-quiver — and  it  was  her  mind  alone  that 
he  had  stimulated  and  excited  to  an  ecstasy  uncontrollable; 
and  which  now  responded  and  acquiesced. 

"And  after  we  marry  I  am  to  study  for  the  stage?"  she 
repeated,  tremulously,  oblivious  of  his  arm  tightening 
around  her  body. 

It  transpired,  gently  and  eloquently,  that  it  was  for  this 
very  reason  he  desired  to  marry  her  and  give  her  what  was 
nearest  her  girl's  heart — what  her  girl's  mind  most  ardently 
desired  in  all  the  world — ^her  liberty  to  choose. 

But  he  warned  her  to  keep  the  secret  from  her  family. 
Trembling,  enchanted,  almost  frightened  by  the  approach- 
ing splendour  of  consummation,  she  promised  in  tears. 

Then  the  barrier  burst  under  an  overwhelming  rush  of 
gratitude.  She  was  his.  She  would  surrender,  now,  to 
this  man  who  had  suddenly  appeared  from  nowhere; — an 
emissary  of  God  sent  to  understand,  sympathise,  guide  her 
to  that  destiny  which,  even  he  admitted,  God  had  ordained 
as  hers. 

Eris  was  married  to  E.  Stuart  Graydon  in  her  twentieth 
year  at  the  parsonage  of  the  Whitewater  Church,  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  All  Whitewater  attended  and 
gorged.  No  rural  precedent  was  neglected — neither  jest 
nor  rice  nor  old  shoes, — everything  happened,  from  the 
organ  music  and  the  unctuous  patronage  of  "Rev. 
Styles,"  to  the  thick  aroma  of  the  "bounteous  repast"  at 
WTiitewater  Farms,  where  neighbours  came,  stuffed  them- 
selves, and  went  away  boisterously  all  that  rainy  afternoon. 

Bride  and  groom  were  to  depart  on  the  six  o'clock  train 
for  Niagara. 

About  five  o'clock,  the  groom,  chancing  to  glance  out  of 
the  window,  saw  two  men, — strangers  in  Whitewater  but 


88  E  R I  S 

perfectly  well  known  to  him, — walking  up  the  path  that  led 
to  the  front  door. 

For  a  second  he  sat  motionless ;  the  next,  he  turned  and 
looked  into  the  grey  eyes  of  his  bride. 

"Eris,"  he  said  calmly,  "if  anybody  asks  for  me  say  I've 
run  down  to  the  mill  and  I'll  be  back  in  fifteen  minutes." 

She  smiled  vaguely  as  he  rose  and  went  out  the  back  way 
where  the  automobiles  were  parked. 

A  few  minutes  later  Odell  was  called  from  the  room  by 
one  of  his  sons : 

"Say,  pop,  there's  a  party  out  here  inquiring  for  someone 
they  call  Eddie  Graydon." 

Odell  went  out  to  the  porch:  "What  name?"  he  de- 
manded, eyeing  the  two  strangers  and  their  dripping  um- 
brellas." 

"You  Elmer  Odell?"  demanded  the  taller  man. 

"That's  what  my  ma  christened  me,"  replied  Odell, 
jocosely. 

"Your  daughter  marrying  a  man  who  calls  himself  E. 
Stuart  Graydon?" 

"She  ain't  marryin'  him.     She's  done  it." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He  jest  stepped  out.  Gone  to  the  mill  to  fix  up  sunthin* 
before  leavin'." 

The  taller  man  said  to  his  companion:  "Run  down  to 
the  mill,  will  you  ?"  And,  as  the  other  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  away  in  the  rain : 

"I've  got  a  warrant  for  Eddie  Graydon  when  he  comes 
back.  That's  one  of  his  names.  Eddie  Carter  is  the  right 
one.  Sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Odell;  sorrier  for  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Odell  stared  at  him,  the  purple  veins  beginning  to  swell  on 
his  temples. 

"D-dang  it!"  he  stammered, — "what's  all  this  dinged 
junk  about?     Who  be  you?" 

And,  when  the  tall,  quiet  man  had  terribly  convinced  him. 


E  R  I S  89 

Odell  staggered,  slightly,  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
temples. 

"That  lad  has  a  record,"  said  the  detective,  in  his  low, 
agreeable  voice.  "He's  a  fine  artist  and  a  crackerjack 
chemist.  Maybe  he  don't  know  anything  about  the  new 
tens  and  twenties.  Maybe.  Nor  anything  about  the  loca- 
tion of  the  plates.  .  .  .  My  God,  Mr.  Odell,  we've  got  to 
get  those  plates.  Only  Brockway  could  have  equalled  that 
engraving.     Yes,  sir — only  the  old  man." 

Odell  scarcely  heard  him  for  the  thunderous  confusion  in 
his  brain. 

He  sat  down,  heavily,  staring  at  space  under  knitted 
brows.  Minute  after  minute  passed.  The  distant  laughter 
and  clamour  of  guests  came  fitfully  from  the  great  kitchen 
beyond.     It  rained  and  rained  on  the  veranda  roof. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  detective  came  in  from  the 
porch. 

"You  got  a  telephone,  Mr.  Odell  ?" 

The  farmer  nodded. 

"I  want  to  call  up  my  mate  at  the  mill "  looking 

around  the  sitting  room  and  finally  locating  the  instrument. 
"What's  the  mill  number?" 

"Seven." 

He  gave  the  crank  a  turn;  the  metal  bell  jingled. 

After  a  few  moments  he  got  his  mate.  He  talked  rap- 
idly in  a  low,  clear  voice.  Odell  heard  without  listening  or 
understanding.     The  detective  hung  up. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "that  fellow's  gone.  He  won't  come 
back  here.     He's  gone!" 

"What  say?"  mumbled  Odell,  wiping  away  the  sweat. 

"I'm  telling  you  that  Eddie  Carter  has  beat  us  to  it.  He 
didn't  go  to  the  mill.  He  won't  come  back  here.  .  .  . 
Who's  got  a  big  yellow  touring  car — a  Comet  Six — in  this 
town?" 

Odell  put  his  scarred  hands  to  his  forehead:  "Doc 
Benson,  I  guess,"  he  said  vaguely. 


40  ERIS 

"He  here?" 

"I  guess  he's  in  there  eatin'." 

"Well,  tell  him  his  car  went  out  of  town  twenty  minutes 
ago  at  sixty  per,"  said  the  detective  briskly.  .  .  .  "So  long. 
I'm  sorry.  ...  Is  there  a  garage  in  the  village  where  they 
have  cars  for  hire  ?" 

"At  the  hotel,"  said  the  farmer.  .  .  .  "By  God!  .  .  ." 
He  got  up  as  though  dazed. 

"Mazie,"  he  called  hoarsely.  Nobody  heard  him  in  the 
gay  tumult.  He  stared  after  the  detective,  who  was  walk- 
ing swiftly  down  the  path  in  the  rain. 

"Jesus,"  he  whispered.  .  .  .  "He  done  us  all.  .  .  . 
'N'  that's  that!    Oh,  God!— 'n'  that's  tlmtr 

A  nine  days'  scandal  in  the  village — sl  year's  food  for 
gossip — and  that  was  that,  also. 

Neither  blame  nor  disgrace  attached  to  anybody.  No- 
body thought  less  of  the  Odells,  nor  did  they  of  tliemselves. 

The  crash  of  her  dream-house  stunned  Eris.  She  took  it 
very  silently,  with  no  outward  emotion. 

After  a  month  the  whole  thing  seemed,  in  fact,  a  dream — 
too  unreal  to  believe  or  to  grieve  over. 

After  three  months  Odell  talked  vaguely  of  getting  a 
di-vorce,  "so's  she  kin  hook  up  to  somebody  respectable 
when  she's  a  mind  to." 

Then  Eris  flashed  fire  for  the  first  time : 

"I'll  never  marry  again!  Never!  I  never  wanted  to 
anyway.  This  is  enough !  I'll  live  and  die  as  I  am.  And 
there'll  be  no  more  men  in  my  life  and  no  botlier  about 
divorce,  either.  He'll  never  come  back.  What  do  I  care 
whether  I'm  married  or  not !  It  doesn't  mean  anj^hing  and 
it  never  will.  I'm  through  with  marriage  and  with  marry- 
ing men  I    And  that's  that!'* 


CHAPTER  V 

TT  was  Sunday;  and  it  was  in  May.  To  Whitewater 
"*•  Farms  floated  the  sound  of  bells  from  three  village 
churches,  pealing  alternately.  With  a  final  three  strokes 
from  each  bell,  Odell  and  Lister  drove  out  of  the  horse-bam 
in  the  family  carry-all.  In  God's  honour,  Odell  wore  a 
celluloid  collar.  Lister's  reverence  was  ejcpressed  in  a  new 
scarlet  bandanna. 

Mazie,  big,  symmetrical,  handsome  in  her  trim  summer 
clothes,  appeared  from  the  house,  herding  her  loitering, 
loutish  offspring — Gene,  i8;  Si,  17;  Willis,  16;  Buddy,  15; 
all  habited  in  the  dark,  ready-made  clothing  and  dark  felt 
hats  of  rural  ceremony,  the  gloomy  similarity  relieved  only 
by  ready-made  satin  neck-scarfs  of  different  but  primitive 
hues. 

"Where's  Eris?"  inquired  Odell. 

Mazie  laughed :  "She  ain't  ready,  what  with  her  curling 
and  her  manicure  set — busy  's'a  bee  from  fingers  to  toes — '* 

"Eris!"  shouted  her  father,  looking  up  at  the  open  win- 
dow, where  dotted  muslin  curtains  were  blowing. 

Eris  peeped  out,  her  chestnut  hair  dishevelled. 

"Don't  wait,"  she  said.     "I'll  walk." 

Odell  gathered  the  reins :     "G'lang !"  he  grunted. 

For  twenty  minutes  or  more  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
House  of  Odell  except  the  flutter  of  muslin  curtains. 

Under  the  window  a  lilac  bush  was  vibrant  with  bumble- 
bees ;  robins  ran  through  the  grass ;  blue-birds  drifted  along 
the  fence  from  post  to  post  in  soft,  moth-like  flight. 

41 


"48  E  R  I  S 

It  was  quite  a  while  after  the  kitchen  dock  struck  that 
light,  hurried  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs. 

Eris  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  radiant  and  in  her  best. 

At  twenty  she  had  the  slender  immaturity  of  a  girl  of 
sixteen.     Her  slim  figure  made  her  seem  taller  than  she  was. 

Her  hat  was  one  of  those  sagging  straw  affairs.  It  tied 
under  the  chin  with  lilac  ribbon.  Her  thin  white  gown  had 
lilac  ribbons  on  it,  too.     So  did  her  sun-shade. 

She  was  very  late.  She  walked  to  the  gate,  keeping  to 
the  brick  path  on  account  of  her  white  shoes  and  stockings. 

Here  she  consulted  her  wrist-watch.  There  was  no  use 
hurrying  now.  She  glanced  up  and  down  the  road — possi- 
bility of  a  belated  neighbour  giving  her  a  lift  to  the  village. 

No,  it  was  too  late  to  hurry.     Almost  too  late  to  go  at  all. 

She  looked  up  at  the  gate  lilacs,  broke  off  a  heavy,  mauve 
cluster,  inhaled  the  fragrance. 

For  a  little  while,  still,  she  lingered  on  the  chance  of  a 
passing  vehicle.  Finally  she  returned  to  her  room,  took  a 
book  from  her  pillow,  took  "the  key  to  the  fields,"  and 
sauntered  off  through  the  hillside  orchard,  now  a  wilderness 
of  pink  and  white  bloom. 

Everywhere  the  azure  wings  of  blue-birds ;  the  peach-red 
of  a  robin's  breast;  the  broad  golden  glint  of  a  flicker 
flashing  through  high  white  bloom. 

The  breeze  which  had  fluttered  her  muslin  curtains  was 
busy  up  here,  too,  blowing  white  butterflies  out  of  their 
courses  and  spreading  silvery  streaks  across  tall  grasses. 

On  the  hill-top  she  paused,  looking  out  over  the  world  of 
May, 

Below  her  lay  Whitewater  Farms,  neat  as  a  group  of 
newly-painted  toys,  house,  barns  with  their  hip-gables,  silos, 
poultry-runs,  sheds,  out-buildings,  whitewashed  fences. 

A  mile  south,  buried  among  elms  and  maples,  lay  White 
Hills  Village,  the  spires  of  its  three  churches  piercing  the 
foliage. 

All  around,  east,  west,  south,  rose  low  hills,  patched  with 


ERIS  4S 

woods,  a  bam  or  two  in  silhouette  on  some  grassy  ridge. 
Ploughed  fields,  pastures,  squares  of  vivid  winter  wheat 
checkered  the  panorama,  the  tender  green  of  hard-wood 
groves  alternating  with  the  dark  beauty  of  hemlock  and 
white  pine. 

Overhead  a  blue  sky,  quite  cloudless ;  over  all,  May  sun- 
shine; the  young  world  melodious  with  the  songs  of  birds. 
And  Eris,  twenty,  with  the  heart  and  experience  of  sixteen. 

Sweet,  thrilling  came  the  meadow  lark's  calling  from  the 
crests  of  tall  elms.     It  seemed  to  pierce  her  heart. 

To  the  breezy  stillness  of  the  hill  came  faintly  out  of  the 
valley  the  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  a  cock-crow,  answered, 
answered  again  from  some  remoter  farm. 

Eris  turned  and  looked  into  the  north,  where  bluish  hills 
spread  away  into  the  unknown. 

Below  her  were  the  Home  Woods,  where  Whitewater 
Brook  ran  over  silver  gravel,  under  mossy  logs,  pouring 
into  deep,  spreading  pools,  gliding  swiftly  amid  a  camou- 
flage of  ferns,  gushing  out  over  limestone  beds  to  clatter 
and  sparkle  and  fling  rainbow  spray  across  every  sunny 
glade. 

Eris  looked  down  at  the  woods.  To  venture  down  there 
was  not  very  good  for  her  low-heeled,  white  sport  shoes. 
...  Of  course  she  could  clean  them  after  noon  dinner  and 
they'd  be  dry  in  time  for — anything.  .  .  .  But  for 
what? 

She  paused  at  the  wood's  edge,  her  mind  on  her  shoes. 

"In  time  for  what  ?"  she  repeated  aloud. 

She  stood,  abstracted,  grey  eyes  brooding  the  question. 

What  was  there  to  dress  for — to  clean  her  white  shoes 
for?  Evening  service.  A  slow  stroll  with  some  neigh- 
bour's daughter  along  the  village  street.  Gossip  with  other 
young  people  encountered  in  the  lamp-lit  dark.  Banter 
with  boys — passing  the  usual  group  clustered  on  fence  or 
wall — jests  born  of  rural  wit,  empty  laughter,  emptier 
retort — the  slow  stroll  homeward.  .  .  .  This  was  what  she 


44  E  R I  S 

dressed  for.  ...  Or  for  a  party  .  .  .  where  the  deadly 
familiarity  of  every  face  and  voice  had  long  since  dulled  her 
interest.  .  .  .  Where  there  was  never  any  mental  outlook; 
no  aspiration,  no  stimulation — no  response  to  her  restless 
curiosity — where  nobody  could  tell  her  "why." 

Standing  there  on  the  wood's  edge,  she  wondered  why 
she  was  at  pains  to  dress  becomingly  for  the  sake  of  such 
things  as  these. 

She  wondered  why  she  cared  for  her  person  so  scrupu- 
lously in  a  family  where  a  bath  a  week  was  the  rule — in  a 
community  where  the  drug-store  carried  neither  orange- 
stick  nor  depilatory. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  with  the  advent  of  short  skirts 
and  prohibition  it  was  now  possible  to  purchase  lip-stick 
and  powder-puff  in  White  Hills.  And  State  Troopers  had 
been  there  twice  looking  for  hootch. 

There  was  a  rumour  in  local  ecclesiastical  circles  that  the 
youth  of  White  Hills  was  headed  hellward. 

As  yet  the  sweet-fern  was  only  in  tassel ;  Eris  could  pid< 
her  way,  without  danger  to  her  stockings,  through  the  strip 
of  rough  clearing.  She  entered  the  woods,  pensively,  amid 
the  dappled  shadows  of  new  leaves. 

Everywhere  her  eyes  discovered  young  ferns  and  wild 
blossoms.  Trillium  and  bunch-berry  were  still  in  bloom; 
viburnum,  too;  violets,  blue,  yellow  and  white;  and  a  few 
pink  moccasin  flowers  and  late  anemones. 

Birds,  too,  sang  everywhere;  crows  were  noisy  in  the 
taller  pines ;  glimpses  'of  wood-thrush  and  Veery  in  moist 
thickets;  clear  little  ecstasies  of  bird-song  from  high 
branches,  the  strident  chirring  of  red  squirrels,  the  mys- 
terious, mufSed  drumming  of  a  cock-grouse  far  in  wood- 
land depths. 

Where  a  mossy  limestone  ledge  hung  low  over  White- 
water Brook,  Eris  spread  her  handkerchief  and  sat  down  on 
it  carefully,  laying  her  book  beside  her. 


ERIS  45 

Here  the  stillness  was  melodious  with  golden  harmonies 
from  a  little  waterfall.  % 

There  were  no  black  flies  or  midges  yet, — no  exasper- 
ating deer-flies  either.  Only  gilded  ephemera  dancing  over 
the  water,  where,  at  intervals,  some  burly  trout  broke  with 
a  splash. 

Green-clouded  swallow-tail  butterflies  in  floppy,  erratic 
flight,  sped  through  sunny  glades.  Overhead  sailed  the 
great  yellow  swallow-tail, — in  aerial  battle,  sometimes  with 
the  Beauty  of  Camberwell,  the  latter  rather  ragged  and 
faded  from  last  summer's  gaiety,  but  with  plenty  of  spirit 
left  in  her  shabby  wings. 

Sun-spots  glowed  and  waned;  shadows  flickered;  water 
poured  and  glided  between  green  banks,  aglint  with  bubbles. 
The  beauty  of  all  things  filled  the  young  heart  of  Eris,  red- 
dened her  lips,  tormented  her,  almost  hurt  her  with  the  de- 
sire for  utterance. 

If  inexperience  really  has  anything  to  express,  it  has  no 
notion  how  to  go  about  it. 

Like  vast,  tinted,  unreal  clouds,  her  formless  thoughts 
crowded  her  mind  —  guileless  desire,  innocent  aspiration 
toward  ineffable  heights,  ambition  as  chaste  as  immature. 

And  when  in  dreaming  preoccupation  the  clouds  took 
vague  form,  her  unfonned  mind  merely  mirrored  an  unreal 
shape  resembling  herself — a  magic  dancing  shape,  ethereal, 
triumphant  amid  Olympian  thunders  of  applause — a  glitter- 
ing shape,  like  hers,  lovelier,  facing  the  world  from  the 
jewelled  splendour  of  the  stage — a  shadow-shape,  gliding 
across  the  screen,  worshipped  in  silence  by  a  breathless 
multitude. 

She  opened  her  book.  It  was  entitled :  "How  to  Break 
into  the  Movies."  She  read  for  a  few  moments,  gave 
it  up. 

It  was  May  in  the  world ;  and,  in  the  heart  of  Eris,  April. 
And  a  strange,  ardent,  restlessness  in  the  heart  of  all  youth 


46  ERIS 

the  whole  world  over — ^the  renaissance,  perhaps,  of  a 
primitive,  lawless  irresponsibility  curbed  into  discipline 
aeons  ago.  And,  after  ages,  let  loose  again  since  the  Twi- 
light of  the  World  fell  over  Armageddon. 

Sooner  or  later  she  felt  she  must  free  mind,  heart,  body 
of  whatever  hampered,  and  go — go  on  about  her  business  in 
life — whatever«it  might  be — seek  it  throughout  the  world — 
ask  the  way — ask  all  things  unknown  to  her — learn  all 
things,  understand,  choose,  achieve. 

Twenty,  in  the  April  just  ended!  Her  time  was  short. 
The  time  to  be  about  her  business  in  life  was  very  near. 
.  .  .  The  time  was  here.  ...  It  was  already  here  ...  if 
she  only  knew  the  way.  .  .  .  The  way  out.  .  .  .  The  door 
that  opened  outward.  .  .  . 

Lifting  her  grey  eyes  she  saw  a  man  across  the  brook. 
He  saw  her  at  the  same  moment. 

He  was  fat.  He  wore  short  rubber  boots  and  no  coat. 
Creel,  bait-box,  and  fishing  rod  explained  his  presence  on 
Whitewater.  But  as  to  his  having  any  business  there,  he 
himself  seemed  in  doubt. 

"Hello,  sister!"  he  said  jauntily. 

"Hello,"  said  Eris,  politely. 

"Is  it  all  right  for  me  to  fish  here  ?"  he  inquired.  "I'm 
not  trespassing,  am  I  ?" 

"People  fish  through  our  woods,"  replied  Eris. 

"Oh,  are  they  yoiir  woods  ?"  He  looked  around  him  at 
the  trees  as  though  to  see  what  kind  of  sylvan  property  this 
girl  possessed, 

"A  pretty  spot,"  he  said  with  condescension,  preparing  to 
bait  his  hook.  "I  like  pretty  spots.  It's  my  business  to 
hunt  for  them,  too.     Yes,  and  sometimes  I  hunt  for  dreary 

spots.     Not  that  I  like  them,  but  it's  in  my  line "     He 

shoved  a  squirming  worm  onto  the  hook  and  wiped  his  hands 
on  his  trousers.     "Yes,  that's  my  line — I'm  in  all  kinds  of 


ERIS  4n 

lines — even  fish-lines "     He  dropped  his  hook  into  the 

pool  and  stood  intent,  evidently  indifferent  to  any  potential 
applause  as  tribute  to  his  wit. 

He  was  sunburnt,  fat,  smooth-shaven.  Thin  hair  partly 
covered  his  head  in  damp  ringlets. 

Presently  he  glanced  across  at  Eris  out  of  little  bluish, 
puffy  eyes  which  sagged  at  the  comers.  He  winked  at  her, 
not  offensively : 

"Yes,  that's  my  best  line,  sister.  .  .  .  Spots !  All  kinds. 
Pretty,  gloomy,  lovely,  dreary — oasis  or  desert,  it  doesn't 
matter;  I'm  always  in  the  market  for  spots." 

"Are  you  looking  for  a  farm?"  inquired  Eris. 

"Farm  ?  Well,  that's  in  my  line,  too, — farms,  mills,  nice 
old  stone  bridges, — all  that  stuff  is  in  my  line, — in  fact, 

everything  is  in  my  line, — and  nothing  on  my  line " 

He  lifted  a  dripping  bait,  lowered  it  again,  winked  at  Eris. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "there  isn't  a  single  thing  in  all  the 
world  that  isn't  in  my  line.  Why,  even  you  are !"  he  added, 
laughing  fatly.     "What  do  you  think  of  that,  now  ?" 

"What  is  your  line?"  she  inquired,  inclined  to  smile. 

"Can't  you  guess,  girlie?" 

"No,  I  can't." 

"Well,  I  come  out  this  way  on  location.  The  bunch  is 
over  at  Summit.  I'm  just  scouting  out  the  lay  over  here. 
To-day's  Sunday,  so  I'm  fishing.  I  can't  hunt  spots  every 
minute." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Eris. 

"Why,  we're  shooting  the  sanitarium  over  at  Summit," 
he  explained,  gently  testing  his  line.  As  there  was  nothing 
on  it  he  looked  over  at  Eris. 

"You  don't  get  me,  sister,"  he  said.  "It's  pictures. 
See?" 

"Moving  pictures  ?" 

"Yeh,  the  Crystal  Fihn  outfit.  We're  shooting  the  'Wild 
Girl.'  It's  all  outside  stuff  now.  We're  going  to  shoot 
The  Piker'  next.     Nature  stuff.    That's  why." 


48  ERIS 

Once  more  he  drew  out  and  examined  his  bait.  "Say," 
he  demanded,  "are  there  any  fish  in  this  stream  ?" 

"Trout." 

"Well,  they  seem  to  be  darned  scarce " 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  interrupted  the  girl, 
breathlessly. 

"Shoot,  sister." 

"I  want  to  know  how  people — ^how  a  girl " 

"Sure.  I  get  you.  I'm  glad  you  asked  me.  They  all 
ask  that.     You  want  to  know  how  to  get  into  pictures." 

"Yes " 

"Of  course.  So  does  every  living  female  in  the  United 
States.  That's  what  sixty  million  women,  young  and  old, 
want  to  know " 

He  looked  up,  prepared  to  wink,  but  something  in  her 
flushed  expression  modified  his  jocose  intention : 

"Say,  sister,"  he  drawled,  "you  don't  want  to  go  into 
pictures." 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"What  for?" 

"Why  are  you  in  pictures  ?"  she  asked. 

"God  knows " 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  why  ?" 

"I  like  the  job,  I  guess." 

"So  do  I." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said,  laughing,  "go  to  it,  girlie." 

"How?" 

"Why,  /  can't  tell  you " 

"You  can!" 

He  lifted  his  bait  and  flopped  it  into  another  place. 

"Now,  listen,"  he  said,  "some  men  would  take  notice  of 
your  pretty  face  and  kid  you  along.  That  ain't  me.  If 
you  break  loose  and  go  into  pictures  it's  a  one  to  a  million 
shot  you  make  carfare." 

"I  want  to  try." 

"/  can't  give  you  a  job,  sister " 


ERIS  49 

"Would  the  Crystal  Film  management  let  me  try?". 

"Nobody  would  let  you  try  unless  they  needed  an  extra.'* 

"What  is  an  extra?" 

"A  day's  jobber.  Maybe  several  days.  Then  it's  hoofing 
it  after  the  next  job." 

"Couldn't  they  let  me  try  a  small  part?" 

"We're  cast.  You  got  to  begin  as  an  extra,  anyhow. 
There's  nothing  else  to  it,  girlie " 

Something  jerked  his  line;  gingerly  he  lifted  the  rod,  not 
"striking" ;  a  plump  trout  fell  from  the  hook  into  the  water. 

"Lost  him,  by  jinx!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  the  devil 
did  I  do  that  I  hadn't  oughto  I  dunno?" 

"You  should  jerk  when  a  trout  bites.  You  just  lifted 
him  out.  You  can't  hook  a  trout  that  way.  ...  I  hope 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  give  me  your  name  and  address, 
and  help  me  to  get  into  pictures." 

For  a  while  he  stood  silent,  re-baiting  his  hook.  When 
he  was  ready  he  cast  the  line  into  the  water,  laid  the  rod 
on  the  bank,  drew  out  and  lighted  a  large,  pallid  cigar. 

"Of  course,"  he  remarked,  "your  parents  are  against  your 
going  into  pictures." 

"My  mother  is  dead.    My  stepmother  only  laughs  at  me." 

"How  about  papa?" 

"He  wouldn't  like  it." 

"Same  old  scenario,"  he  said.  "Arid  I'll  give  you  the 
same  old  advice:  if  you  got  a  good  home,  stay  put.  Have 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  stay  put?" 

"No." 

"You  want  to  run  away  and-be-a-great-actress  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  try." 

"Try  to  do  what?" 

"Find  out  what  I  can  do  and  do  it!"  she  rq)lied  hotly, 
almost  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

He  looked  up  at  the  delicate,  flushed  beauty  of  her  face. 


50  ERIS 

It  wasn't  a  question  of  talent.  Most  women  have  the 
actress  in  them.  With  or  lacking  intelligence  it  can  be 
developed  enough  for  Broadway  use. 

"You  young  girls,"  he  said,  "expect  to  travel  everywhere 
on  your  looks.  And  some  of  you  do.  And  they  last  as 
long  as  their  looks  last.  But  men  get  nowhere  without 
brains." 

"I  have  brains,"  she  retorted  unsteadily. 

"Let  it  go  at  that.     But  where's  your  experience?" 

"How  can  I  have  it  unless  I — I  try?" 

"You  think  acting  is  your  vocation,  sister?" 

"I  intend  to  find  out." 

"You  better  listen  to  me  and  stick  to  a  good  home  while 
the  sticking's  good!" 

"I'm  going  into  pictures,"  she  said  slowly.  "And  that's 
that!" 

Wearying  of  bad  luck  the  fat  man  started  to  move  down 
stream  toward  another  pool. 

The  girl  rose  straight  up  on  her  mossy  rock,  joining  both 
hands  in  classic  appeal,  quite  unconscious  of  her  dramatic 
attitude. 

"Please — please  tell  me  who  you  are  and  where  you 
live!"  she  beseeched  him. 

He  was  inclined  to  laugh ;  then  her  naivete  touched  him. 

"Well,  sister,"  he  said,  "if  you  put  it  that  way — my  name 
is  Quiss — Harry  B.  Quiss.  I  live  in  New  York — Hotel 
Huron.  You  can  find  me  there  when  I'm  not  on  location 
or  at  the  studio.  .  .  .  The  Crystal  Films  Corporation. 
We're  in  the  telephone  book." 

Mr.  Quiss  might  have  added  that  the  Crystal  Films  Cor- 
poration was  also  on  its  beam-ends.  But  he  couldn't  quite 
do  that.  All  he  could  say  was :  "Better  stick  to  papa  while 
the  sticking's  good,  girlie.  There's  no  money  in  pictures. 
They  all  bust  sooner  or  later.  Take  it  from  one  who's  been 
blown  sky-high  more'n  twice.  And  expects  to  go  up  more'n 
twice  more." 


ERIS  61 

He  went  slowly  toward  the  pool  below,  gesticulating  with 
his  rod  for  emphasis : 

"There's  no  money  in  pictures — ^not  even  for  stars.  I 
don't  know  where  it  all  goes  to.  Don't  ask  me  who  gets  it. 
I  don't,  anyway." 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  Monday  evening  at  five  o'clock  the  Whitewater  herd 
was  ready  for  milking. 

Odell,  Ed  Lister,  and  the  foreman,  Gene  Lyford,  scrubbed 
their  hands  and  faces  and  put  on  clean  white  canvas  clothes. 
Clyde  Storm,  helper,  went  along  the  lime-freshened  concrete 
alleys,  shaking  out  bran  and  tossing  in  clover  hay.  Every- 
where in  the  steel  stanchions  beautiful  Guernsey  heads  were 
turned  to  watch  his  progress.  In  the  bull-pen  the  herd  bull 
pried  and  butted  at  the  bars.  The  bam  vibrated  with  his 
contented  lowing. 

Calves  in  their  pens  came  crowding  to  the  bars  like  herded 
deer,  or  went  bucketing  about,  excited  to  playful  combat 
by  the  social  gathering  after  an  all-day  separation. 

In  the  stalls  sleek  flanks  were  being  wiped  down  until 
they  glistened  like  the  coats  of  thoroughbred  horses;  udders 
were  washed  with  tepid  water;  the  whole  place  smelled 
fresh  and  clean  as  a  hayfield. 

No  mechanical  apparatus  was  employed  at  Whitewater 
Farms. 

Odell,  finished  with  the  first  cow,  carried  the  foaming 
pail  to  the  steelyards,  weighed  it,  noted  the  result  on  the 
bulletin  with  a  pencil  that  dangled  there,  and  stepped  aside 
to  make  room  for  Ed  Lister,  who  came  up  with  a  brimming 
pail. 

There  was  little  conversation  at  milking  hour,  scarcely  a 
word  spoken  except  in  admonition  or  reassurance  to  some 
restless  cow — no  sounds  in  the  bam  save  the  herd-bull's 
deep  rumble  of  well-being,  a  gusty  twitter  of  swallows  from 
the  eaves,  the  mellow  noises  of  feeding  cattle,  clank  and 

52 


E  R I  S  58 

creak  of  stanchion,  gush  and  splash  of  water  as  some  thirsty 
cow  buried  her  pink  nose  in  the  patent  fonts. 

The  still  air  grew  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  milk  and 
clover-hay. 

One  or  two  grey  cats  came  in,  hopefully,  and  sat  on  the 
ladder-stairs,  purring,  observant,  receptive. 

The  cows  on  test  were  in  the  western  extension,  all 
becoming  a  trifle  restless  now  that  their  hour  was  again 
ai>proaching.  And  presently  two  of  Odell's  sons,  Si  and 
Willis,  came  in,  scrubbed  arid  clothed  in  white,  prepared  to 
continue  the  exhaustive  record  already  well  initiated. 

"Eris  home  yet?"  asked  Odell  over  his  shoulder. 

Si  shook  his  head  and  picked  up  a  pail. 

"Well,  where'n  the  dang-dinged  town  is  she?"  growled 
Odell.  "If  she's  staying  som'mers  to  supper,  why  can't 
she  send  word?" 

Willis  said :  "Buddy  went  down  street  to  look  for  her. 
Mommy  sent  him." 

The  boys  passed  on  into  the  extension  where  the  comely 
cattle  on  test  stood  impatient. 

Odell  remarked  to  Lister:  "Ever  since  Eris  drove  over 
to  Summit  to  see  them  pitcher  people  makin'  movies  she's 
acted  sulky  and  contrary  like.  Now  look  at  her  stayin' 
away  all  day — 'n'  out  to  supper,  too,  som'mers." 

"She  acts  like  she's  sot  on  sunthin',"  suggested  Lister, 
adjusting  his  milking  stool  and  clasping  the  pail  between 
his  knees. 

"She's  sot  on  j'ining  some  danged  moving  pitcher 
comp'ny,"  grunted  Odell.  "That's  what's  in  her  head  all 
the  time  these  days." 

Lister's  pail  hummed  with  alternate  streams  of  milk 
drumming  on  the  tin.  For  a  while  he  milked  in  silence 
save  for  a  low-voiced  remonstrance  to  the  young  and  tem- 
peramental Guernsey  whose  near  hind  leg  threatened 
trouble. 

As  he  rose  with  the  brimming  pail  he  said :    "I  guess  Eris 


54  ERIS 

is  a  good  girl.  I  guess  she  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  do 
nothin'  rash,  Elmer." 

"I  dunno.  You  couldn't  never  tell  what  Fanny  had  in 
her  head.  Fanny  alius  had  her  secret  thoughts.  I  never 
knowed  what  she  was  figurin'  out.  Eris  acts  that  way; 
she  does  what  she's  told  but  she  thinks  as  she's  a  mind  to. 
Too  much  brain  ain't  healthy  for  no  woman." 

Lister  weighed  his  pail,  scratched  down  the  record  oppo- 
site the  cow's  name,  turned  and  looked  back  at  Odell. 

"Women  oughta  think  the  way  their  men-folks  tell  'em," 
he  said.  "That's  my  idee.  But  the  way  they  vote  and 
carry  on  these  days  is  a-sp'ilin'  on  'em,  accordin'  to  my  way 
of  figurin'." 

Odell  said  nothing.  As  he  stood  weighing  his  pail  of 
milk.  Buddy  came  into  the  bam,  eating  a  stick  of  shop 
candy. 

"Say,  pa,"  he  called  out,  "mommy  wants  you  up  to  the 
house !" 

"When?  Now?"  demanded  his  father  in  dull  sur- 
prise. 

"I  guess  so.     She  said  you  was  to  come  right  up." 

Odell  placed  the  empty  milk  pail  on  the  floor :  "Eris  home 
yet?" 

"I  dunno.  I  guess  not  Will  you  let  me  milk  Snow-bird, 
pa.'^ 

"No.  Look  at  your  hands !  You  go  up  and  shake  down 
some  hay.  .  .  .  Where's  your  ma?" 

"She's  up  in  Eris'  room.  She  says  for  you  to  come. 
Can't  I  wash  my  hands  and " 

"No.  G'wan  up  to  the  loft.  And  don't  step  on  the  pitch- 
fork, neither." 

He  turned  uncertainly  toward  Lister  and  found  his 
father-in-law  looking  at  him. 

"Kinda  queer,"  he  muttered,  "Mazie  sending  for  me 
when  she  knows  I'm  milking.  ..." 

Lister  made  no  comment.    Odell  went  out  heavily,  crossed 


ERIS  55 

the  farm  yard  in  the  pleasant  sunset  glow,  walked  on 
toward  the  house  with  lagging  stride. 

As  he  set  foot  on  the  porch  he  became  conscious  of  his 
irritation,  felt  the  heat  of  it  in  his  cheeks — the  same  old 
familiar  resentment  which  had  smouldered  through  the 
ding)',  discordant  years  of  his  first  marriage. 

Here  it  was  again,  creeping  through  him  after  all  these 
|>lacid  years  with  Mazie — the  same  sullen  apprehension,  dull 
unease  verging  on  anger,  invading  his  peace  of  mind,  stirred 
this  time  by  Fanny's  child — Eris,  daughter  of  Discord. 

"Dang  Fanny's  breed,"  he  muttered,  entering  the  house, 
" — we  alius  was  enemies  deep  down,  .  .  .  deep  down  in 
the  flesh.  ..." 

All  at  once  he  tmderstood  his  real  mind.  Eris  had 
always  been  Fanny's  child.  Never  his.  He  remembered 
what  Fanny  had  said  to  him  at  the  approach  of  death — 
how,  in  that  last  desperate  moment  the  battered  mask  of 
years  had  slipped  from  her  bony  visage  and  he  had  gazed 
into  the  stark  face  of  immemorial  antipathy,  .  .  .  the 
measureless  resentment  of  a  sex. 

Fanny  was  dead.  May  God  find  out  what  she  wants 
and  give  it  to  her.  But  Fanny's  race  persisted.  She  lived 
again  in  Eris.  He  was  face  to  face  with  it  again.  .  .  . 
After  twenty  years  of  peace!  .  .  . 

He  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  called  to  his  wife. 
Her  voice  answered  from  the  floor  above.  He  plodded  on 
upstairs. 

Mazie  was  standing  in  Eris'  room,  a  pile  of  clothing  on 
the  bed,  a  suit-case  and  a  small,  flat  trunk  open  on  the 
floor. 

She  turned  to  Odell,  her  handsome  features  flushed,  and 
the  sparkle  of  tears  in  her  slanting,  black  eyes. 

"WTiat's  the  trouble  now  ?"  he  demanded,  already  divin- 
ing it. 

"She's  gone,  Elmer.  She  called  me  up  on  the  telephone 
from  Albany  to  tell  me.     The  Crystal  Fillum  Company 


56  ERIS 

offers  her  a  contract.  She  wants  her  clothes  and  her 
money." 

A  heavy  colour  surged  through  the  man's  face. 

"That's  the  danged  secret  blood  in  her,"  he  said.  "I 
knowed  it.  There's  alius  sunthin'  hatchin'  deep  down  in 
women  of  her  blood.  .  .  .  She's  alius  had  it  in  her  mind 
to  quit  us.  .  .  .  She  never  was  one  of  us.  .  .  .  All  right, 
let  her  go.     I'm  done  with  her." 

Mazie  began  unsteadily:  "So  many  children  of — of  our 
day  seem  to  feel  like  our  Eris '* 

"Mine  don't!  My  boys  ain't  got  nothin'  secret  into 
them!  They  ain't  crazy  in  the  head  'n'  they  ain't  full  o* 
fool  notions." 

Mazie  remained  silent.  Her  sons  were  fuller  of  "notions" 
than  their  father  knew.  It  had  required  all  the  magnetism 
of  her  affection  and  authority  to  keep  them  headed  toward 
a  future  on  Whitewater  Farms.  For  the  nearest  town  was 
already  calling  them ;  they  sniffed  the  soft-coal  smoke  from 
afar  and  were  restless  for  the  iron  dissonance  and  human 
bustle  of  paved  and  narrow  ways. 

Theirs  was  the  gregarious  excitement  instinct  in  human 
animals.  Beyond  the  dingy  monochrome  of  life  they 
caught  a  glimmer  of  distant  brightness.  The  vague  sum- 
mons of  unknown  but  suspected  pleasures  stirred  them  as 
they  travelled  the  sodden  furrow. 

Youth's  physical  instinct  is  to  gather  at  the  water-hole 
of  this  vast  veldt  we  call  the  world,  and  wallow  in  the 
inviting  mire  of  a  thousand  hoofs,  and  feel  and  hear  and 
see  the  perpetual  milling  of  the  human  herds  that  gather 
there. 

Only  in  quality  did  Eris  differ  from  her  brothers.  It 
was  her  mind — and  the  untasted  pleasures  of  the  mind — 
that  drove  her  to  the  common  fount. 

There  is  a  picture  by  Fragonard  called  "The  Fountain 
of  Love."  And,  as  eagerly  as  the  blond  and  glowing  girl 
speeds  to  the  brimming  basin  where  mischievous   little 


E  R I  S  67 

winged  Loves  pour  out  for  her  the  magic  waters,  so  im- 
petuously had  Eris  sped  toward  the  fount  of  knowledge, 
hot,  parched  with  desire  to  set  her  lips  to  immortal  springs. 

Odell's  heavy  eyes,  brooding  anger,  followed  Mazie's 
movements  as  she  smoothed  out  the  clothing  and  laid  each 
garment  in  the  trunk. 

"You  don't  have  to  do  that,"  he  growled.  "Let  her 
come  and  get  'em  if  she  wants  'em." 

"But  she  needs " 

"Dang  it,  let  'em  lay.  Like's  not  she'll  sicken  o'  them 
pitcher  people  before  the  week's  out.  She'll  get  her  belly 
full  o'  notions.  Let  her  caper  till  she  runs  into  barbed  wire. 
That'll  sting  some  sense  into  her  hide." 

"She  only  took  her  little  leather  bag,  Elmer " 

"She'll  sicken  sooner.  I  ain't  worryin'  none.  She  ain't 
a  loose  girl;  she's  just  a  fool  heifer  that  goes  bucketin'  over 
a  snake  fence  where  it's  half  down.  Let  her  kick  up  and 
skylark.  You  bet  she'll  hear  the  farm  bell  when  it  comes 
supper  time " 

He  turned  away  exasperated,  but  Mazie  took  him  by  the 
sleeve  of  his  milking  jacket: 

"She's  got  to  have  money,  Elmer " 

"No,  she  hain't!     She'll  sicken  the  quicker " 

"Elmer,  it's  her  money." 

"  'Tain't.     It's  mine." 

"It's  her  heifer  money " 

"She  shan't  have  it!  Not  till  she's  twenty-one.  And 
that's  that!" 

Mazie  looked  at  her  husband  in  a  distressed  way,  her 
black  eyes  full  of  tears : 

"Elmer,  you  can't  use  a  girl  like  a  boy.  A  girl's  a  tender 
thing.  And  I  was  afraid  of  this — something  like  this.  .  .  . 
Because  Eris  is  a  mite  different.  She  likes  to  read  and 
study.  She  likes  to  figure  out  what  she  reads  about.  She 
likes  music  and  statues  and  art-things  like  the  hand-painted 


68  E  R I S 

pictures  we  saw  in  Utica.  There's  no  harm  in  art,  I  guess. 
.  .  .  And  you  know  how  she  always  did  love  to  dress  up 
for  church  plays — and  how  nicely  she  sang  and  danced  and 
acted  in  school " 

"Dang  it  all!"  shouted  Odell,  beating  one  tanned  fist 
within  the  other  palm,  "let  her  come  home  and  cut  her 
capers !  She  can  do  them  things  when  there's  a  entertain- 
ment down  to  the  church,  can't  she? 

"That's  enough  for  any  girl,  ain't  it?  And  she  can  go 
to  Utica  and  look  at  them  hand-painted  pitchers  in  the 
store  windows.  And  she  can  dance  to  socials  and  showers 
like  sensible  girls  and  she  can  sing  her  head  off  Sundays 
in  church  when  she's  a  mind  to! 

"All  she's  gotta  do  is  come  home  and  git  the  best  of 
everything.  But  as  long  as  she  acts  crazy  and  stays  away, 
I'm  done  with  her.    And  that's  that!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

QPRING  had  begun  more  than  a  month  early.  The 
^  young  year  promised  agricultural  miracles.  All  omens 
were  favourable.  Ed  Lister  predicted  it  would  be  a  "hog- 
killin'." 

June's  magic  turned  Whitewater  to  a  paradise.  Crystal 
mornings  gradually  warming  until  sundown ;  gentle  showers 
at  night  to  freshen  herbage  and  start  a  million  planted  seeds ; 
blossoms,  bees,  buds,  blue  skies — all  exquisitely  balanced 
designs  in  June's  enchanted  tapestry — and  nothing  so  far 
to  mar  the  fabric — no  late  and  malignant  frost,  no  early 
drouth,  broken  violently  by  thunderbolt  and  deluge;  no 
hail;  no  heavy  winds  to  dry  and  sear;  nothing  untoward 
in  the  herd, — no  milk- fever,  no  abortion,  no  terrifying 
emergency  at  night. 

The  only  things  to  irritate  Odell  were  the  letters  from 
Eris.  They  aroused  in  him  the  dumb,  familiar  anger  of 
Fanny's  time. 

But  after  the  first  week  in  July  there  were  no  longer  any 
letters  from  Eris.  The  girl  had  written  two  or  three  times 
during  June,  striving  to  explain  herself,  to  make  him  under- 
stand her  need  of  doing  as  she  was  doing,  the  necessity  that 
some  of  her  own  money  be  sent  her. 

Her  last  letter  arrived  about  the  beginning  of  that  dreadful 
era  of  unprecedented  heat  and  drouth  which  ushered  in  July 
and  which  caused  that  summer  to  be  long  remembered  in 
the  Old  World  as  well  as  in  the  New. 

Odell's  refusal  to  send  her  a  single  penny,  and  his  repeated 

59 


60  ERIS 

summons  for  her  return  had  finally  silenced  Eris,  No  more 
letters  came.  Odell's  attitude  silenced  Mazie,  too,  whose 
primitive  sense  of  duty  was  to  her  man  first  of  all. 

Sometimes  she  ventured  to  hope  that  Eris  might,  some- 
how, be  successful.  Oftener  a  comforting  belief  reassured 
her  that  the  girl  would  soon  return  to  material  comforts  and 
female  duties,  which  were  all  Mazie  comprehended  of  earthly 
happiness. 

Odell's  refusal  to  send  Eris  her  money  and  her  clothes 
worried  Mazie  when  she  had  time  to  think.  But  what  could 
she  do?  Man  ruled  Mazie's  universe.  It  was  proper  that 
he  should.  All  her  life  she  had  had  to  submit  to  him, — she 
had  to  cook  for  him,  wash,  sew,  mend,  care  for  his 
habitation,  bear  his  children,  fed  them,  wean  them,  and,  in 
the  endless  sequence  again,  cook,  wash,  iron,  sew,  mend 
for  these  men-children  which  she  had  borne  her  man. 
And  it  was  proper.  It  was  the  way  of  the  world.  Of 
heaven,  too,  perhaps.  God  himself  was  masculine.  .  .  . 
She  sometimes  wondered  whether  there  really  was  any  rest 
there  for  female  angels.  .  .  . 

Of  what  other  women  desired  and  did, — of  aspiration, 
spiritual  and  intellectual  discontent,  Mazie  knew  nothing. 
For  her  nothing  desirable  existed  beyond  the  barbed  wire. 
And  yet,  without  at  all  understanding  Eris,  always  she  had 
feh  an  odd  sympathy  for  the  girl's  irregularities — had 
recognized  that  Fanny's  child  was  different  from  herself, 
from  her  offspring — from  other  women's  children.  But 
the  underlying  motive  that  had  sent  Eris  forth  was  quite 
beyond  Mazie's  ken.  The  resurrection  of  her  sex  came  too 
early  for  her  who  had  not  yet  died. 

The  farm  year  had  begun  prosperously.  Until  July  there 
had  been  no  cloud  on  the  horizon.  In  imagination  Odell 
gazed  across  acres  and  acres  of  golden  harvest ;  saw  a  benefi- 
cent and  paternal  Government  coming  to  the  relief  of  all 
farmers;  saw  every  silo  packed,  every  barn  bursting;  saw 
the  steady  increase  of  the  herd  balanced  by  profitable  sales ; 


ERIS  61 

saw  ribbons  and  prizes  awaiting  his  exhibits  at  County  and 
State  Fairs. 

Yet,  very  often  after  supper,  when  standing  on  the  porch 
chewing  his  quid  as  stolidly  as  his  cows  chewed  their  cuds, 
he  was  aware  of  a  vague  unease — as  in  Fanny's  day. 

He  could  not  comprehend  the  transmission  of  resentment 
from  Fanny  to  Fanny's  child.  He  could  much  less  under- 
stand the  inherited  resentment  of  a  sex,  now  for  the  first 
time  since  creation  making  its  defiance  subtly  felt  the  whole 
world  through.  Sub  juguni  ad  astra!  And  now  the  Yoke 
had  fallen;  stars  blazed  beyond.  Restless-winged,  a  Sex 
stood  poised  for  flight,  turning  deaf  ears  to  earthbound 
voices  calling  them  back  to  hoods  and  bells  and  jesses. 

One  stifling  hot  night  in  July,  after  two  weeks'  enervating 
drouth,  Odell's  impotent  wrath  burst  from  the  depths  of  bit- 
terness long  pent : 

"That  ding-danged  slut  will  shame  us  yet  if  she  don't  come 
back!  I'm  done  with  her  if  she  ain't  in  her  own  bed  by 
Monday  night.  You  write  and  tell  her,  Mazie.  Tell  her 
I'm  through.     Tell  her  I  say  so.     And  that's  that!" 

The  "ding-danged  slut"  at  that  moment  lay  asleep  on  the 
grass  in  a  New  York  public  park.  And  all  around  her,  on 
the  hot  and  trampled  grass,  lay  half -naked,  beastly,  breathing 
human  heaps — the  heat-tortured  hordes  of  the  unwashed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JULY  began  badly  in  New  York.  Ambulances  became 
busy,  hospitals  overcrowded,  seaside  resorts  thronged. 
Day  after  day  a  heavy  atmosphere  hung  like  a  saturated  and 
steaming  blanket  over  the  city.  The  daily  papers  recorded 
deaths  from  heat.  Fountains  were  full  of  naked  urchins 
unmolested  by  police.  Firemen  drenched  the  little  children 
of  the  poor  with  heavy  showers  from  hose  and  stand-pipe. 

Toward  midnight,  on  the  tenth  day  of  the  heat,  a  slight 
freshness  tempered  the  infernal  atmosphere  of  the  streets. 
It  was  almost  a  breeze.  In  the  Park  dry  leaves  rustled 
slightly.  Sleepers  on  bench  and  withered  sward  stirred, 
sighed,  relaxed  again  into  semi-stupor. 

Two  men  in  light  clothes  and  straw  hats,  crossing  the 
Park  from  West  to  East,  paused  on  the  asphalt  path  to  gaze 
upon  the  thousands  of  prostrate  figures. 

Yonder's  a  sob-stuff  story  for  you,  Barry,"  remarked  the 
shorter  man. 

"There's  more  than  one  story  there,"  said  the  other. 

"No,  only  one.  I'll  tell  you  that  story :  these  people  had 
rather  work  and  die  in  their  putrid  tenements  than  work 
and  live  in  the  wholesome  countryside.  You  can't  kick 
these  town  rats  out  of  their  rat-ridden  city.  They  like  to 
fester  and  swarm.  And  when  any  species  swarms,  Barry, 
Nature  presently  decimates  it." 

They  moved  along  slowly,  looking  out  over  the  dim 
meadows  heaped  with  unstirring  forms. 

"Perhaps,"  admitted  Annan,  who  had  been  addressed  as 
Barry,  "the  mass  story  is  about  what  you  outlined,  Mike; 

but  there  are  other  stories  there "     He  made  a  slight 

62 


ERis  e» 

gesture  toward  the  meadow,  "The  whole  gamut  from  farce 
to  tragedy.  .  .  ." 

"The  only  drama  in  that  mess  is  rooted  in  stupidity." 

"That's  where  all  tragedy  is  rooted.  ...  I  could  step  in 
among  those  people  and  in  ten  minutes  I  could  bring  back 
material  for  a  Hugo,  a  Balzac,  a  Maupassant,  a  Dumas " 

"Why  don't  you?  It's  your  job  to  look  for  literary  loot 
in  human  scrap  heaps.  Here's  life's  dumping  ground. 
You're  the  chiffonier.     Why  not  start  business?" 

"I'm  considering  it." 

"Go  to  it,"  laughed  the  other,  lighting  a  cigarette  and 
leaning  gracefully  on  his  walking  stick.  "Yonder's  the 
sewer;  dig  out  your  diamond.     Uproot  your  lily!" 

Annan  said :  "Do  you  want  to  bet  I  can't  go  in  there, 
wake  up  one  of  those  unwashed,  and,  in  ten  minutes,  get  the 
roots  of  a  story  as  good  as  any  ever  written?" 

"If  you  weren't  in  a  class  by  yourself,"  said  the  other, 
"I'd  bet  with  you.  Any  ordinary  newspaper  man  could  go 
in  there  and  dig  up  a  dozen  obvious  news  items.  But  you'll 
dig  up  a  commonplace  item  and  turn  it  into  an  epic.  Or 
you'll  dig  up  none  at  all,  and  come  back  with  a  corker " 

"I'll  play  square " 

"I  know  you!  The  biggest  story  in  the  world,  Barry, 
was  born  a  punk  little  news  item ;  and  it  would  have  died 
an  item  except  for  the  genius  who  covered  it.  You're  one 
of  those  damned  geniuses " 

"Don't  try  to  hedge! " 

"Don't  tell  me!  Nothing  ever  really  happens  except  in 
clever  brains.  I  can  condense  Hamlet's  story  into  a  para- 
graph. But  I'm  glad  Shakespeare  didn't.  I'm  glad  the 
Apostles  were " 

"You're  a  crazy  Irishman,  Coltfoot,"  remarked  Annan, 
looking  about  him  at  the  thousands  of  spectral  sleepers. 
"Shut  up.  I  need  a  story  and  I'm  going  to  get  one.  .  .  . 
You  don't  want  to  take  my  bet,  do  you?" 

'All  right.     Ten  dollars  that  you  don't  get  the  honest 


64  E  R  I  S 

makings  of  a  real  story  in  ten  minutes.  No  faking!  No 
creative  genius  stuff.  Just  bald  facts."  He  looked  at  his 
wrist  watch,  then  at  his  companion.     "Ready?" 

Annan  nodded,  glanced  out  over  the  waste  of  withered 
grass.  As  he  stepped  from  the  asphalt  to  the  meadow  a 
tepid  breeze  began  to  blow,  cooling  his  perspiring  cheeks. 

A  few  sleepers  stirred  feverishly.  Under  a  wilted  shrub 
a  girl  lifted  her  heavy  head  from  the  satchel  that  had  pil- 
lowed it.  Then,  slowly,  she  sat  upright  to  face  the  faint  stir 
of  air. 

Her  hat  fell  off.  She  passed  slim  fingers  through  her 
bobbed  hair,  ruffling  it  to  the  cool  wind  blowing. 

Annan  walked  directly  toward  her,  picking  his  way  across 
the  grass  among  the  sleeping  heaps  of  people. 

As  he  stopped  beside  her,  Eris  looked  up  at  him  out  of 
tired  eyes  which  seemed  like  wells  of  shadow,  giving  her 
pinched  face  an  appearance  almost  skull-like. 

Annan  mistook  her  age,  as  did  everybody ;  and  he  calmly 
squatted  down  on  his  haunches  as  though  condescending 
to  a  child. 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  talk  to  me,"  he  said  in  his  easy,  per- 
suasive way.  "I  write  stories  for  newspapers.  I'm  looking 
for  a  story  now.  li  you'll  tell  me  your  story  I'll  give  you 
ten  dollars." 

Eris  stared  at  him  without  comprehension.  The  increas- 
ing breeze  blew  her  mop  of  chestnut  curls  upward  from  a 
brow  as  white  as  milk. 

"Come,"  he  said  in  his  pleasant  voice,  "there  are  ten  per- 
fectly good  dollars  in  it  for  you.  All  I  want  of  you  is  your 
story — not  your  real  name,  of  course, — just  a  few  plain 
facts  explaining  how  you  happen  to  be  sleeping  here  in 
Central  Park  with  your  little  satchel  for  your  pillow  and 
the  sky  for  your  bed-clothes." 

Eris  remained  motionless,  one  slender  hand  buried  in  the 
grass,  the  other  resting  against  her  temples.  The  blessed 
breeze  began  to  winnow  her  hair  again. 


ERIS  65 

"Won't  you  talk  to  me?"  urged  Annan.     "You're  not 
afraid,  are  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you?" 

"Just  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  be  sleeping  here  in  the 
Park  to-night." 

"I  have  to  save  my  money — "     She  yawned  and  con- 
cealed her  lips  with  one  hand. 

"Please  excuse  me,"  she  murmured,  "I  haven't  slept  very 
well." 

"Then  you  have  some  money?"  he  inquired. 

"I  have  twenty  dollars.  .  .  .  Money  doesn't  last  long  in 
New  York." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  agreed  Annan  gravely.     "Did  you  work 
in  a  shop?" 

"In  pictures." 

"Moving  pictures  ?" 

"Yes.     I  have  a  contract  with  the  Crystal  Films." 
"Oh,  yes.     I  heard  about  that  outfit.     It  blew  up.     Did 
they  ever  pay  you  any  salary?" 

"No." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  hook  up  with  that  bunch  of 
crooks?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  they  are  crooks.     Mr.  Quiss  isn't." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Well — I  think  he  looks  up  places  to  photograph — and  he 
supplies  extras " 

"A  scout.     Where  did  you  run  into  him?" 

"Near  my  home." 

"Did  your  parents  permit  you  to  join  that  flossy  outfit?" 

"No." 

"I  see.     You  ran  away."  j 

"I — went  away." 

"Could  you  go  home  now  if  you  wished  to?" 

"I  don't  wish  to." 

"Then  you  must  believe  that  you  really  possess  dramatic 
talent." 


66  ERIS 

Eris  passed  her  fingers  wearily  through  her  hair :  "I  am 
trying  to  learn  something,"  she  said,  as  though  to  herself. 
"I  think  I  have  talents." 

"What  is  it  you  most  desire  to  be?" 

"I  like  to  act  .  .  .  and  dance.  ...  I'd  like  to  write  a 
play  ...  or  a  book  ...  or  something.  ..." 

"Like  other  people,  you're  after  fame  and  fortune.  I'm 
chasing  them,  too.  Everybody  is.  But  the  world's  goal 
remains  the  same,  no  matter  what  you  are  hunting.  That 
goal  is  Happiness." 

She  looked  at  him,  heavy-eyed,  silent.  She  yawned 
slightly,  murmured  an  excuse,  rubbed  her  eyes  with  her  fore- 
finger. 

"Which  is  your  principal  object  in  life,  fame  or  for- 
tune?" he  inquired,  smiling. 

"Are  those  the  principal  objects  in  life?"  she  asked,  so 
naively  that  he  suspected  her. 

"Some  believe  that  love  is  more  important,"  he  said.  "Do 
you?" 

She  rested  her  pale  cheek  on  her  hand :     "No,"  she  said. 

"Then  what  is  your  principal  object  in  life?"  he  asked, 
watching  her  intently. 

"I  think,  more  than  anything,  I  desire  education." 

His  surprise  was  followed  by  further  suspicion.  Her 
reply  sounded  too  naive,  too  moral.  He  became  wary  of 
the  latent  actress  in  her." 

She  sat  there  huddled  up,  brooding,  gazing  into  the  dark- 
ness out  of  haunted  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  an  education  is  really  worth  this  sort  of 
hardship?"  he  asked. 

That  seemed  to  interest  her.     She  replied: 

"I  think  so.  ...  I  don't  know." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  learn  ?" 

"The  truth  .  .  .  about  things." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  school?" 

"I've  been  through  high-school." 


ERIS  67 

"Didn't  you  learn  the  truth  about  things  in  high-school?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  learn  it  then  ?" 

She  was  plainly  interested  now : 

"I  think  the  only  way  is  to  find  out  for  myself.  ...  I 
don't  know  anybody  who  can  tell  me  reasons.  I  like  to  be 
told  why.  If  I  don't  know  the  facts  about  life  how  can  I 
write  plays  and  act  them?  I  nuust  find  out.  I'm  twenty, 
and  I  know  scarcely  anything  worth  knowing.  It  is  awful. 
It  frightens  me.  I'm  crazy  to  be  somebody.  I  can't  be 
unless  I  learn  the  truth  about  things. 

"There  is  nobody  at  home  to  tell  me.  ...  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  ...  I  had  to  find  out  for  myself. 
Books  don't  help.  They  excite."  She  looked  at  him  fever- 
ishly: "It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  want  only  facts,"  she  said. 
"Because  nothing  else  satisfies." 

He  thought,  incredulously,  "Where  did  she  get  that  line?" 
He  said :  "A  taste  for  Truth  spoils  one's  appetite  for  any- 
thing else.  ...  So  that's  what  you're  after,  is  it?  You're 
after  the  truth  about  things." 

She  did  not  reply. 

He  said,  always  watching  her :  "When  you  know  the 
truth  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Act  it.     Write  it." 

"Live  it,  too?"  he  inquired  gravely. 

She  turned  to  look  at  him,  not  comprehending. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  get  the  money  to  do  all  this?" 
he  asked  lightly. 

"It  is  going  to  be  difficult — without  money,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

Something  in  the  situation  stirred  a  perverse  sort  of 
humour  in  him.  He  didn't  quite  believe  in  her,  as  she 
revealed  her  complexities  and  her  simplicities  out  of  her  own 
mouth. 

"The  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  good,"  he  re- 
marked. 


68  ERIS 

After  a  silence:  "I  wonder,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"One  needs  it  to  do  good  .  .  .  perhaps  to  be  good.  .  .  . 
Nobody  can  tell,  I  suppose,  what  starvation  might  do  to 
them.  .  .  .  Money  is  good." 

"All  things  are  difficult  without  money,"  he  said,  pursuing 
his  perverse  thesis.  "The  love  of  it  is  not  the  root  of  all 
evil.  Money  is  often  salvation.  Lack  of  it  fetters  effort. 
Want  of  it  retards  fulfilment.  Without  it  ambition  is 
crippled.  Aspiration  remains  a  dream.  Lacking  a  penny- 
worth of  bread,  Hamlet  had  never  been  written.  ...  I  think 
I'll  say  as  much  in  my  next  story." 

His  was  an  easy  and  humorous  tongue,  facile  and  cre- 
ative, too — it  being  his  business  to  juggle  nimbly  with  ideas 
and  amuse  an  audience  at  so  much  a  column. 

Eris  listened,  unaware  that  he  was  poking  fun  at  himself. 
Her  shadowy  eyes  were  intent  on  his  in  the  starlight.  The 
white,  sharp  contours  of  her  face  interested  him.  He  was 
alert  for  any  word  or  tone  or  gesture  done  for  dramatic 
effect. 

"So  that's  your  story,  then,"  he  said  in  his  gay,  agreeable 
voice.  "You  are  a  little  pilgrim  of  Minerva  in  quest  of 
Wisdom,  travelling  afoot  through  the  world  with  an  empty 
wallet  and  no  staff  to  comfort  you." 

"I  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "Minerva  was 
goddess  of  Wisdom.    We  had  mythology  in  high-school." 

He  thought:  "She's  a  clever  comedienne  or  an  utter 
baby."     He  said :     "Is  that  really  all  there  is  to  your  story  ?" 

"I  have  no  story." 

"No   ill-treatment   at   home    to   warrant   your    running 


away 


"Oh,  no." 

"Not  even  an  unhappy  love  affair?" 

She  shook  her  head  slightly  as  though  embarrassed. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty  in  April." 

Annan  was  silent.     He  had  not  supposed  her  to  be  over 


ERIS  69 

seventeen.  She  had  seemed  little  more  than  a  child  in  the 
starlight  when  she  sat  up  ruffling  her  bobbed  hair  in  the  first 
tepid  breeze. 

She  said  seriously:  "I  am  growing  old.  And  if  I  have 
talent  I  have  no  time  to  waste.  That  is  why  I  went  away 
at  the  first  opportunity." 

"What  are  your  talents?" 

"I  dance.  I  have  acted  in  school  plays.  Once  I  wrote 
a  one-act  piece  for  myself.     They  liked  it." 

"Go  ahead  and  tell  me  about  it." 

She  told  him  how  she  had  written  the  act  and  how  she  had 
sung  and  danced.  Stimulated  by  the  memory  of  her  little 
success,  she  ventured  to  speak  of  her  connection  with  the 
Crystal  Films.  Then,  suddenly,  the  long  pent  flood  of 
trouble  poured  out  of  her  lonely  heart. 

"I  drove  over  to  Summit,"  she  said,  "where  they  had 
been  shooting  an  exterior.  Mr.  Quiss  introduced  me  to 
Mr.  Donnell,  the  director.  Mr.  Donnell  said  that  they  were 
just  leaving  for  Albany  on  location,  and  he  couldn't  give 
me  a  test.  So  I  went  to  Albany  the  next  morning — I  just 
packed  my  night-clothes  and  walked  all  the  way  to  Gay- 
field  to  catch  the  six  o'clock  morning  train.  It  was  my  first 
chance.  I  seemed  to  realise  that.  I  took  fifty  dollars  I  had 
saved.     I  have  spent  thirty  of  it  already. 

"At  Albany  Mr.  Donnell  had  a  test  made  of  me.  It 
turned  out  well.  He  offered  me  a  contract.  I  telephoned 
to  my  stepmother  and  told  her  what  I  had  done.  I  ex- 
plained that  I  needed  money.  ...  I  have  some  money  of 
my  own.  But  my  father  wouldn't  let  me  have  it.  I  wrote 
several  times,  but  they  only  told  me  to  come  home.  They 
wouldn't  let  me  have  any  money. 

"Then,  when  the  company  arrived  at  the  New  York  studio, 
Mr.  Donnell  seemed  to  be  in  trouble.  We  were  not  paid.  I 
heard  Mr.  Quiss  say  that  the  principals  had  received  no  sal- 
ary for  a  month.  He  said  that  Mr.  Donnell  had  not  been 
paid,  either.     The  carpenters  who  were  building  sets  refused 


70  E  R  I  S 

to  go  on  until  they  had  their  wages.  Somebody  cut  off  the 
electric  current.  Our  dynamo  stopped.  We  stood  around 
all  day.  Somebody  said  that  the  bankers  who  owned  the 
Crystal  Films  were  in  financial  difficulties. 

"Then,  the  next  morning,  when  we  reported  for  work  at 
the  studio,  we  found  it  locked.  I  was  sorry  for  our  com- 
pany. Even  the  principals  seemed  to  be  in  need  of  money. 
Mr.  Quiss  was  very  kind  to  me.  He  offered  to  pay  my 
fare  back  home.  But  I  wouldn't  go.  Mr.  Donnell  offered 
to  lend  me  ten  dollars,  but  I  told  him  I  had  twenty.  He 
gave  me  a  nice  letter  to  the  Elite  Agency.  Mr.  Quiss 
promised  to  keep  me  in  mind.  But  the  agencies  tell  me 
that  all  the  film  companies  are  letting  their  people  go  this 
summer.  I  can't  seem  to  find  any  work.  They  tell  me 
there  won't  be  any  work  until  October.  ...  I'm  saving 
my  twenty  dollars.  And  I'm  wondering  what  I  shall  find 
to  do  to  keep  busy  until  October.  .  .  ,  Even  if  I  could 
afford  a  room,  I  don't  need  it.  It  is  too  hot  in  New  York 
to  sleep  indoors.  ...  I  can  wash  my  face  and  hands  in 
the  ladies'  room  of  any  hotel.  I  give  the  maid  five  cents. 
.  .  .  But  I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  a  bath,  I  must  do 
something.  ...  I  shall  hire  a  room  for  a  day  and  wash 
myself  and  my  clothes.  .  .  .  You  see,  twenty  dollars  doesn't 
go  very  far  in  New  York.  ...  I  wonder  how  far  I  can 
go  on  it.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  would  be  the  very 
cheapest  way  to  live  on  twenty  dollars  until  October?" 

After  a  silence  Annan  said:  "I  owe  you  ten  for  your 
story.     That  makes  thirty  dollars." 

"Oh.     But  I  can't  take  money  from  yout" 

"Why?" 

"I  haven't  earned  it.  I  had  no  story  to  tell  you.  I've 
only  talked  to  you." 

Annan,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  grass,  clasped  his  knees 
with  both  arms.     He  said,  coolly: 

"I  offered  you  ten  dollars  for  your  story.  That  was  too 
little  to  offer  for  such  a  story.     It's  worth  more." 


E  R I  S  71 

"Why,  it  isn't  worth  anything,"  she  retorted.  "I  hadn't 
any  story  to  tell  you.  I  shan't  let  you  give  me  money  just 
because  I've  talked  to  you." 

"Can  you  guess  how  much  I  shall  be  paid  by  my  newspaper 
for  writing  out  this  story  you  have  told  me?"  he  asked, 
smiling  at  her  in  the  starlight. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  I  won't  bother  you  with  details;  but  your  com- 
mission in  this  transaction  will  be  considerable.  Your  com- 
mission will  amount  to  a  hundred  dollars." 

She  sat  so  rigid  and  unstirring  that  he  leaned  a  little 
toward  her  to  see  her  expression.  It  was  flushed  and 
hostile. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  joking?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  doing." 

He  said :  "I'm  not  mean  enough  to  make  a  joke  of  your 
predicament.  I'm  telling  you  very  honestly  that  I  can  con- 
struct a  first-rate  short  story  out  of  the  story  you  have 
just  told  me.  I'm  workman  enough  to  do  it.  That's  my 
job. 

"Every  week  I  write  a  short  story  for  the  Sunday  edition 
of  the  New  York  Planet.  My  stories  have  become  popular. 
My  name  is  becoming  rather  well  known.  I  am  now  paid 
so  well  for  my  stories  that  I  can  afford  to  pay  well  for  the 
idea  you  have  given  me.  Your  story  is  full  of  ideas,  and  it's 
worth  about  a  hundred  dollars  to  me." 

"It  isn't  worth  a  cent,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
offer  me  money.  ...  Or  anything  .  .  ."  She  laid  both 
hands  against  her  forehead  as  though  her  head  ached,  and 
sat  huddled  up,  elbows  resting  on  her  knees.  Presently  she 
yawned. 

"Please  excuse  me,"  she  murmured,  "I  seem  to  be 
tired." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Annan  turned  his  head  to  see 
if  his  friend  Coltfoot  still  waited.  Not  discovering  him, 
he  inspected  his  watch.     Surprised,  he  lit  a  match  to  make 


72  E  R  I  S 

certain  of  the  time ;  and  discovered  that  he  had  been  talking^ 
with  this  girl  for  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half. 

He  said  to  her  in  his  pleasant,  persuasive  voice :  "You're 
not  afraid  of  me,  are  you?" 

She  looked  up,  white  and  tired:  "I'm  not  afraid  of 
anybody." 

"Well,  you're  not  entirely  right.  However,  if  you're  not 
afraid  of  me,  suppose  I  help  you  find  a  room  to-night.  You 
can  afford  a  room  now." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  intend  to  stay  here?" 

"Yes,  to-night." 

"You'd  better  not  stay  here  with  a  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars  in  your  pocket." 

"I  shan't  take  money  from  you." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  lose  five  hundred  dollars?" 

"How  ?"  she  asked,  bewildered  by  the  sudden  impatience 
in  his  voice. 

"H  I  write  the  story  I  get  six  hundred.  I  won't  write  it 
unless  you  take  your  commission." 

She  said  nothing. 

"Come,"  he  said,  almost  sharply.  "I'm  not  going  to 
leave  you  here.  You  need  a  bath,  anyway.  You  can't  get  a 
good  rest  unless  you  have  a  bath." 

He  sprang  up  from  the  grass,  took  her  hand  before  she 
could  withdraw  it,  and  drew  her  forcibly  to  her  feet. 

"Maybe  you're  twenty,"  he  said,  "but  some  cop  is  likely 
to  take  you  to  the  Arsenal  as  a  lost  child." 

She  seemed  so  startled  that  he  reassured  her  with  a 
smile, — stooped  to  pick  up  her  hat  and  satchel,  still  smiling. 

"Come  on,  little  pilgrim,"  he  said,  "it's  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  the  Temple  of  Wisdom  is  closed.  Bath  and 
bed  is  your  best  bet." 

She  pinned  on  her  hat  mechanically,  smoothed  her 
wrinkled  dress.     Then  she  looked  up  at  him  in  a  dazed  way. 

"Ready?"  he  asked  gently. 


E  R  I  S  78 

"Yes.     What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Let's  go,"  he  said  lightly,  and  took  her  by  the  hand  again. 

Slowly  through  starry  darkness  he  guided  her  between 
prone  shapes  on  the  grass,  and  so  along  the  asphalt,  east,  until 
the  silvery  lamps  of  Fifth  Avenue  stretched  away  before 
them  in  endless,  level  constellations. 

He  was  beginning  to  wonder  where  to  take  her  at  such 
an  hour.  But  to  the  sort  of  mind  that  was  Annan's,  direct 
method  and  simple  solution  always  appealed.  He  came  to 
a  swift  conclusion, — came  to  it  the  more  easily  because  it 
was  an  amusing  one. 

"You're  not  afraid  of  me,  you  say?"  he  repeated. 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  seem  kind.  .  .  .  Should  I 
be?" 

"Well,  not  in  my  case,"  he  said,  laughing.  .  .  .  "We'll 
take  that  taxi — "  He  hailed  it,  gave  directions,  and  seated 
himself  beside  her,  now  keenly  amused. 

"Little  pilgrim,"  he  said,  "you're  going  to  have  a  good 
scrub,  a  good  sleep  in  a  good  bed,  and  a  jolly  good  break- 
fast when  you  wake  up.     What  do  you  think  of  that!" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  ...  I  have  found  much 
kindness  among  strangers." 

He  laughed  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  The  avenue  was 
nearly  deserted.  At  Forty-second  Street  the  taxi  swung 
west  to  Seventh  Avenue,  south,  passing  Twenty-third 
Street,  west-again  through  a  maze  of  crooked  old-time  streets. 
It  stopped,  finally,  before  a  two-story  and  basement  house  of 
red  brick — one  of  many  similar  houses  that  lined  both  sides 
of  a  dark  and  very  silent  block. 

Annan  got  out,  paid  his  fare,  took  the  little  satchel,  and 
handed  Kris  out. 

"Is  it  a  boarding  house?"  she  asked. 

"One  lodges  well  here,"  he  replied  carelessly. 

They  ascended  the  stoop ;  Annan  used  his  latch  key,  let  her 
in,  switched  on  the  light. 

"Come  up,"  he  said  briefly. 


M  E  R  I  S 

On  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  switched  on 
another  light,  opened  a  door,  lighted  a  third  bracket. 

"Come  in!" 

Eris  entered  the  bed-room.  It  was  large.  So  was  the 
bed,  a  four-poster.     So  was  the  furniture. 

"Here's  your  bath-room,"  he  remarked,  opening  a  door 
into  a  white-tiled  room.  He  stepped  inside  to  be  certain. 
There  were  plenty  of  towels,  soap  still  in  its  wrapper,  a  row 
of  bottles  with  flowers  painted  on  them — evidently  for  mas- 
culine use — cologne,  bay  rum,  witch  hazel,  hair-tonic. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "your  worries  are  over  until  to-morrow. 
There's  your  tub,  there's  your  bed,  there's  a  key  in  the  door. 
Lock  it  when  you  turn  in.  And  don't  you  stir  until  they 
bring  your  breakfast  in  the  morning." 

Eris  nodded. 

"All  right.     Good-night." 

She  turned  toward  him  as  though  still  a  little  bewildered. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Yes.     Is  there  anything  you  need?" 

"No.  ...  I  would  like  to  thank  you — if  you  are  go- 
ing. ..." 

"Little  pilgrim,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  thank  you  for  an 
interesting  evening." 

He  held  out  his  hand;  Eris  laid  hers  in  it. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  your  name,"  he  said  smilingly, 
" — unless  you  choose  to." 

"Eris  Odell." 

"Eris!  Well,  that's  rather  classic,  isn't  it?  That's  an — 
unusual — name.  .  .  .  Eris.  Suggests  Mount  Ida  and 
golden  apples,  doesn't  it? — Or  is  it  your  stage  name?" 

Puzzled,  smiling,  he  stood  looking  at  her,  still  retaining 
her  hand, 

"No,  it's  my  name." 

"Well,  then,  my  name  is  Barry  Annan.  .  .  .  And  I 
think  it's  time  we  both  got  a  little  sleep.  ..."  He  shook 
her  slender  hand  formally,  released  it. 


E  R I  S  76 

"Good  night,  Eris,"  he  said.  "Lock  your  door  and  go  to 
sleep." 

"Good  night,"  she  rephed  in  a  tired,  unsteady  voice. 

Annan  walked  through  the  corridor  into  the  front  bed- 
room and  turned  on  his  light. 

He  seemed  to  be  much  amused  with  the  situation, — a 
little  worried,  too. 

"She'll  get  in  Dutch  if  she  doesn't  look  out,"  he  thought  as 
he  went  about  his  preparations  for  the  night.  .  .  .  "A 
funny  type.  .  .  .  Rather  convincing.  ...  Or  a  consum- 
mate actress.  .  .  .  But  she's  most  amusing  anyway.  Let's 
see  how  she  turns  out.  ,  .  .  She  looks  hungry.  .  .  .  What 
a  little  fool !  .  .  .  Now,  you  couldn't  put  this  over  on  the 
stage  or  in  a  story.  .  .  .  Your  public  is  too  wise.  They 
don't  grow  that  kind  of  girl  these  days.  .  .  .  That's  roman- 
tic stuff  and  it  won't  go  with  the  wise  guy.  .  .  .  You  can't 
pull  a  character  like  this  girl  on  any  New  York  audience. 
And  yet,  there  she  is — in  there,  scrubbing  herself,  if  I  can 
judge  by  the  sound  of  running  water.  .  .  .  No,  she  doesn't 
exist.  .  .  .  And  yet,  there  she  is !  .  .  .  Only  I'm  too  clever 
to  believe  in  her.  .  .  .  There  is  no  fool  like  a  smart 
one.  .  .  .  That  is  why  the  Great  American  Ass  is  the  great- 
est ass  on  earth.  ..." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IVTRS.  SNIFFEN,  who  had  looked  after  Annan  for 
■*■'-■■  thirty  years,  found  him  bathed,  shaved,  and  dressed, 
and  busy  writing  when  she  brought  him  his  breakfast  tray. 

"The  gentleman  in  the  other  room,  Mr.  Barry — when  is 
he  to  'ave  'is  breakfast?" 

"It's  a  lady,  old  dear." 
Mrs.  Sniffen's  pointed  nose  went  up  with  a  jerk.    He  had 
been  counting  on  that.    He  liked  to  see  Mrs.  Sniffen's  nose 
jerk  upward. 

"A  pretty  lady,"  he  added,  "with  bobbed  hair.  I  met  her 
accidentally  about  two  o'clock  this  morning  in  Central  Park." 

When  the  effect  upon  Mrs.  Sniffen  had  sufficiently  di- 
verted him,  he  told  her  very  briefly  the  story  of  Eris. 

"I'm  writing  it  now,"  he  added,  grinning.  "Sob-stuff, 
Xantippe.  I'm  going  to  make  a  little  gem  of  it.  It'll  be  a 
heart-yanking  tragedy — predestined  woe  from  the  beginning. 
That's  what  they  want  to-day, — weeps.  So  I'm  going  to 
make  'em  snivel.  .  .  .  Moral  stuff,  old  dear.  You'll  like  it. 
Now,  be  nice  to  that  girl  in  there  when  she  wakes  up " 

He  put  his  arm  around  Mrs.  Sniffen's  starched  and  an- 
gular shoulders  as  she  indignantly  placed  his  tray  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

"Leave  me  be,  Mr.  Barry,"  she  said  sharply. 

Some  of  the  parties  given  by  Annan  had  been  attended  by 
what  Mrs.  Sniffen  considered  "hussies."  Annan  gave  vari- 
ous sorts  of  parties.  Some  were  approved  by  Mrs.  Sniffen, 
some  she  disapproved.  Her  sentiments  made  a  chilling 
difference  in  her  demeanour,  not  in  her  efficiency.    She  was  a 

76 


ERIS  77 

trained  servant  first  of  all.  She  had  been  in  Annan's  family 
for  forty  years. 

"Be  kind  to  her/'  repeated  Annan,  giving  Mrs.  Sniffen  a 
pat  and  a  hug.  "She's  a  good  little  girl.  .  .  .  Too  good, 
perhaps,  to  survive  long.  She's  the  sort  of  girl  you  read 
about  in  romance  forty  years  ago.  She's  a  Drury  Lane 
victim.  They  were  all  fools,  you  know.  I  couldn't  leave  the 
suffering  heroine  of  a  Victorian  novel  out  in  the  Park  all 
night,  could  I,  old  dear?" 

"It's  your  'ouse,  Mr.  Barry,"  said  Mrs.  Sniffen  grimly. 
"Don't  be  trying  to  get  around  me  with  your  imperent,  easy 
ways " 

"I'm  not  trying  to.  When  you  see  her  and  talk  to  her 
you'll  agree  with  me  that  she  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is 
beautiful.  Of  course,"  he  added,  "virtue  without  beauty  is 
unknown  in  polite  fiction,  and  is  to  be  severely  discouraged." 

"You're  the  master,"  snapped  Mrs.  Sniffen.  "I  know  my 
place.  I  'ope  others  will  know  theirs — particularly 
minxes " 

"Now,  Xantippe,  don't  freeze  the  child  stiff.  I'm  very 
sure  she  isn't  a  minx " 

Mrs.  Sniffen  coldly  laid  down  the  law  of  suspects: 

"I'll  know  what  she  is  when  I  see  her.  ,  .  .  There's  minxes 
and  there's  'ussies ;  and  there's  sluts  and  scuts.  And  there's 
them  that  walk  in  silk  and  them  that  wear  h'aprons.  And 
there's  them  that  would  rather  die  where  they  lie  than  take 
bed  and  bread  of  a  strange  young  gentleman  who  follows 
'is  fancy  for  a  lark  on  a  'ot  night  in  the  Park.  'Ussies 
are  'ussies.  And  I'm  not  to  be  deceived  at  my  time  o' 
life." 

Annan  chipped  an  egg,  undisturbed.  "I  know  you, 
Xantippe,"  he  remarked.  "You  may  not  like  some  of  the 
people  who  come  here,  but  you'll  be  nice  to  this  girl.  .  .  . 
Take  her  breakfast  to  her  at  ten-thirty;  look  her  over;  come 
in  and  report  to  me." 

"Very  well,  sir." 


78  E  R  I  S 

Annan  went  on  with  his  breakfast,  leisurely.  As  he  ate 
he  read  over  his  pencilled  manuscript  and  corrected  it  be- 
tween bites  of  muffin  and  bacon. 

It  was  laid  out  on  the  lines  of  those  modern  short  stories 
which  had  proven  so  popular  and  which  had  lifted  Barry 
Annan  out  of  the  uniform  ranks  of  the  unidentified  and 
given  him  an  individual  and  approving  audience  for  what- 
ever he  chose  to  offer  them. 

Already  there  had  been  lively  competition  among  period- 
ical publishers  for  the  work  of  this  new-comer. 

His  first  volume  of  short  stories  was  now  in  preparation. 
Repetition  had  stencilled  his  name  and  his  photograph  upon 
the  public  cerebrum.  Success  had  not  yet  enraged  the  less 
successful  in  the  literary  puddle.  The  frogs  chanted  politely 
in  praise  of  their  own  comrade. 

The  maiden,  too,  who  sips  the  literary  soup  that  seeps 
through  the  pages  of  periodical  publications,  was  already 
requesting  his  autograph.  Clipping  agencies  began  to  pur- 
sue him;  film  companies  wasted  his  time  with  glittering 
offers  that  never  materialised.  Annan  was  on  the  way  to 
premature  fame  and  fortune.  And  to  the  aftermath  that 
follows  for  all  who  win  too  easily  and  too  soon. 

There  is  a  King  Stork  for  all  puddles.  His  law  is  the  law 
of  compensations.  Dame  Nature  executes  it — ^alike  on 
species  that  swarm  and  on  individuals  that  ripen  too  quickly. 

Annan  wrote  very  fast.  There  were  about  thirty-five 
hundred  words  in  the  story  of  Eris.  He  finished  it  by 
half -past  ten. 

Rereading  it,  he  realised  it  had  all  the  concentrated  bril- 
liancy of  an  epigram.  Whether  or  not  it  would  hold  water 
did  not  bother  him.  The  story  of  Eris  was  Barry  Annan  at 
his  easiest  and  most  persuasive.  There  was  the  characteris- 
tic and  ungodly  skill  in  it,  the  subtle  partnership  with  a 
mindless  public  that  seduces  to  mental  speculation;  the  re- 
assuring caress  as  reward  for  intellectual  penetration;  that 
inborn  cleverness  that  makes  the  reader  see,  applaud,  or 


ERIS  79 

pity  him  or  herself  in  the  sympathetic  role  of  a  plaything 
of  Chance  and  Fate. 

And  always  Barry  Annan  left  the  victim  of  his  tact  and 
technique  agreeably  trapped,  suffering  gratefully,  excited  by 
self-approval  to  the  verge  of  sentimental  tears. 

"That'll  make  'em  ruffle  their  plumage  and  gulp  down  a 
sob  or  two,"  he  reflected,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  a  little 
intoxicated,  as  usual,  by  his  own  infernal  facility. 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  shuffled  his  manuscript,  numbered  the 
pages,  and  stuffed  them  into  his  pocket.  The  damned  thing 
was  done. 

Walking  to  the  window  he  looked  out  into  Governor's 
Place — one  of  those  ancient  and  forgotten  Greenwich  streets, 
and  now  very  still  and  deserted  in  the  intense  July  sun- 
shine. 

Already  the  hazy  morning  threatened  to  be  hotter  than 
its  humid  predecessors.  Nothing  stirred  in  the  street,  not  a 
cat,  not  an  iceman,  not  even  a  sparrow. 

Tall  old  trees,  catalpa,  maple,  ailanthus, — remnants  of 
those  old-time  double  ranks  that  once  lined  both  sidewalks, — 
spread  solitary  pools  of  shade  over  flagstone  and  asphalt. 
All  else  lay  naked  in  the  glare. 

Mrs.  Sniffen  appeared,  starched  to  the  throat,  crisp,  un- 
perspiring  in  her  calico. 

"She's  'ad  her  breakfast,  sir." 

"Oh!    How  is  she  feeling?" 

"Could  you  lend  her  a  bath-robe  and  slippers,  sir?" 

He  smiled:  "Has  she  concluded  to  stay  here  indefi- 
nitely?" 

"Her  clothes  are  in  the  tub,  Mr.  Barry." 

"In  the  bath-tub?" 

"In  the  laundry  tub." 

"Oh.     So  you're  going  to  do  her  laundry  for  herl" 

"It's  no  trouble,  sir.  I  can  'ave  them  for  her  by  early 
afternoon." 


80  ERIS 

"You're  a  duck,  Xantippe.  You  look  after  her.  I'm 
going  down-town  to  the  office.     Give  her  some  lunch." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

He  followed  Mrs.  SniflFen  to  the  corridor,  where  his  straw 
hat  and  malacca  stick  hung  on  a  peg. 

"Am  I  right,  or  is  she  a  hussie?"  he  inquired,  mischiev- 
ously. 

"She's  an  idjit,"  snapped  Mrs.  SnifiFen.  "Spanking  is 
what  she  needs." 

"You  give  her  one,"  he  suggested  in  guarded  tones,  glanc- 
ing instinctively  at  the  closed  door  beyond. 

"Shall  you  be  back  to  lunch,  sir?" 

He  was  descending  the  stairs,  his  story  bulging  in  his  coat 
pocket. 

"No;  but  don't  let  her  go  till  I  come  back.  I'm  going 
to  try  to  persuade  her  to  go  home  to  the  pigs  and  cows.  .  .  . 
And,  Xantippe,  there'll  be  four  to  dinner.  Eight  o'clock 
will  be  all  right.  ...  I'd  like  a  few  flowers." 

"Very  weU,  sir." 

Annan  went  out.  The  house  had  cooled  during  the 
night  and  the  heat  in  the  street  struck  him  in  the  face. 

"Hell,"  he  muttered,  "isn't  there  any  end  to  this !" 

There  is  no  shabbier,  dingier  city. in  the  world  than  New 
York  in  midsummer. 

The  metropolis  seems  to  be  inhabited  by  a  race  consti- 
tutionally untidy,  indifferent  to  dirt,  ignorant  of  beauty,  of 
the  elements  of  civic  pride  and  duty. 

For  health  and  comfort  alone,  tree-shaded  streets  are  a 
necessity;  but  in  New  York  there  is  a  strange  hostility  to 
trees.  The  few  that  survive  mutilation  by  vandals, — ^ani- 
mal and  human, — are  species  that  ought  not  to  be  planted 
in  such  a  city. 

A  few  miserable  elms,  distorted  poplars,  crippled  maples, 
accentuate  barren  vistas.  Lamp  posts  and  fire  boxes  fill 
up  the  iron  void,  stark  as  the  blasted  woods  of  no-man's 
land. 


E  R I  S  81 

Annan  found  Coltfoot,  the  Sunday  editor,  in  his  under- 
shirt, drops  of  sweat  spangling  the  copy  he  was  pencilling. 

"You  didn't  wait  last  night,"  began  Annan. 

"What  do  you  think  I  am !"  growled  Coltfoot  "I  need 
sleep  if  you  don't."     He  picked  up  a  cold  cigar,  relighted  it. 

"Do  I  get  your  ten  or  do  you  get  mine?" 

"There's  her  story,"  said  Annan,  tossing  the  manuscript 
onto  the  desk. 

"Is  it  straight?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  You  yourself  said  that  nothing  really 
ever  happens  except  in  the  human  brain." 

"Then  you  hand  me  ten?" 

"I  found  a  news  item  and  made  a  story  of  it.  As  the  girl 
is  still  alive,  I  had  to  end  my  story  by  deduction." 

"What  do  you  do,  kill  her  off?" 

"I  do." 

"You  and  your  morgue,"  grunted  Coltfoot.  " — it's  a 
wonder  your  public  stands  for  all  the  stiffs  you  bring 
in.  .  .  .  But  they  do.  .  .  .  They  want  more,  too.  It's  a 
murderous  era.  Fashion  and  taste  have  become  necrologi- 
cal.  But  mortuary  pleasures  pass.  Happy  endings  and 
bridal  bells  will  come  again.  Then  you  tailors  of  Grubb 
Street  will  have  to  cut  your  shrouds  according." 

He  glanced  at  the  first  pencilled  page,  skimmed  it,  read  the 
next  sheet  more  slowly,  lingered  over  the  third — suddenly 
slapped  the  manuscript  with  open  palm : 

"All  right.  All  right!  You  get  away  with  murder,  as 
tisual.  .  .  .  Your  stuff  is  dope.  Anybody  is  an  ass  to  try 
it  It's  habit-forming  stuff.  I  don't  know  now  whether 
I  owe  you  ten.     I  guess  I  do,  don't  I  ?" 

"We'll  have  to  wait  and  see  what  happens  to  her.  If  her 
story  works  out  like  my  version  of  her  story,  you'll  owe  me 
ten,"  said  Annan,  laughing. 

"What  really  happened  last  night  after  I  left?"  demanded 
Coltfoot 

Annan  told  him,  briefly. 


8«  E  R  I  S 

"What,"  exclaimed  the  other,  "is  that  tramp  girl  still  in 
your  house?" 

"Yes,  poor  little  devil.  I'm  going  to  ship  her  back  to  her 
native  dairy  this  afternoon.  ...  By  the  way,  you're  dining 
with  me,  you  know." 

Coltfoot  nodded,  pushed  a  button  and  dragged  a  bunch  of 
copy  toward  him. 

"Get  out  of  here,"  he  said. 

Annan  lunched  at  the  Pewter  Mug,  a  club  for  clever  pro- 
fessionals, where  there  were  neither  officers  nor  elections  to 
membership,  nor  initiation  fees,  nor  vouchers  to  sign. 

Nobody  seemed  to  know  how  it  originated,  how  it  was 
run,  how  members  became  members. 

One  paid  cash  for  luncheon  or  dinner.  The  dues  were 
fifty  dollars  yearly,  dumped  into  a  locked  box  in  cash. 

Of  course,  some  one  man  managed  the  Pewter  Mug. 
Several  were  suspected.  But  nobody  in  the  large  member- 
ship was  certain  of  his  identity. 

Thither  strolled  Barry  Annan  after  a  scorching  trip  up- 
town. Wilted  members  drifted  in  to  dawdle  over  cold 
dishes, — clever  youngsters  who  had  made  individual  splashes 
in  their  several  puddles ;  professionals  all, — players,  writers, 
painters,  composers,  architects,  engineers,  physicians,  sailors, 
soldiers, — the  roll  call  represented  all  the  creative  and  inter- 
pretive professions  that  America  is  heir  to. 

Annan's  left-hand  neighbour  at  the  long  table  was  a  boy 
officer  whose  aeroplane  had  landed  successfully  on  Pike's 
Peak,  to  the  glory  of  the  service  and  the  star-spangled 
banner. 

On  his  right  a  young  man  named  Bruce  ate  cold  lobster 
languidly.  He  was  going  to  Newport  to  paint  a  great  and 
formidable  lady — "gild  the  tiger-lily,"  as  Annan  suggested, 
to  the  horror  of  Mr.  Bruce. 

She  had  been  a  very  great  lady.  Traditionally  she  was  still 
a  social  power.     But  she  had  seen  everything,  done  every- 


ERIS  88 

thing,  and  now,  grown  old  and  bad-tempered,  she  passed 
her  declining  days  in  making  endless  lists  of  people  she  did 
not  want  to  know. 

She  was  Annan's  great-aunt.  She  had  never  forgiven 
him  for  becoming  a  common  public  entertainer. 

Once  Annan  wrote  her :  "I've  a  list  of  people  you  have 
overlooked  and  whom  you  certainly  would  not  wish  to 
know." 

Swallowing  her  dislike  she  wrote  briefly  requesting  him 
to  send  her  the  list. 

He  sent  her  the  New  York  Directory.  The  breach  was 
complete. 

"What  can  you  offer  me  that  I  cannot  offer  myself?" 
Annan  had  inquired  impudently,  at  their  final  interview. 

"If  you  come  out  of  that  Greenwich  gutter  and  behave  as 
though  you  were  not  insane  I  can  make  you  the  most  eligible 
young  man  in  New  York,"  she  had  replied. 

He  preferred  his  "gutter,"  and  she  washed  her  gem-laden 
hands  of  him. 

But  the  curse  clung  to  Barry  Annan.  "He's  a  nephew 
of  Mrs.  Magnelius  Grandcourt,"  was  still  remembered 
against  him  when  his  name  and  his  stories  irritated  the  less 
successful  among  his  confreres.  The  conclusion  of  the 
envious  was  that  he  had  a  "pull." 

Bruce  rose  to  go — a  dark,  sleek  young  man,  trimmed  in 
Van  Dyck  fashion,  with  long,  acquisitive  fingers  and  some- 
thing in  his  suave  manner  that  suggested  perpetual  effort  to 
please.     But  his  eyes  were  opaque. 

"Tell  my  aunt,"  said  Annan,  "that  if  she'll  behave  her- 
self she  can  come  and  live  a  sporting  life  with  me  in  Gov- 
ernor's Place,  and  bring  her  cat,  parrot,  and  geranium." 

Bruce' s  shocked  features  were  Annan's  reward.  He 
grinned  through  the  rest  of  luncheon;  was  still  grinning 
when  he  left  the  Pewter  Mug. 

Outside  he  met  Coltfoot,  hot  and  without  appetite. 

"It's  ten  degrees  hotter  down-town,"  grunted  the  latter. 


84  ERIS 

"I'm  empty,  but  the  idea  of  food  is  repugnant.  Where  are 
you  going,  Barry?" 

Annan  had  forgotten  Eris.  "I'm  going  to  get  out  of 
town,"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  go  out  to  Esperence  and  get 
some  golf.  We  can  be  back  by  7:30.  Does  it  appeal  to 
you,  Mike?" 

"It  does,  but  I'm  a  business  man,  not  a  genius,"  said 
Gjltfoot,  sarcastically.  "Did  you  ship  your  tramp  girl 
home?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  I  clean  forgot  her,"  exclaimed  Annan.  "I've 
got  to  go  back  to  Governor's  Place.  I  must  get  rid  of  her 
before  dinner " 

He  was  already  moving  toward  Sixth  Avenue.  He  turned 
and  called  back,  "Eight  o'clock,  Mike!" 

"All  set,"  grunted  Coltfoot. 

An  elevated  train  was  Annan's  choice.  Preoccupied  with 
the  problem  of  Eris,  he  arrived  at  No.  3  Governor's  Place 
before  he  had  solved  it.  He  didn't  want  to  hustle  her  out. 
He  couldn't  have  her  there  at  eight  o'clock. 

Letting  himself  into  the  little  brick  house  with  a  latch-key, 
he  glanced  along  the  corridor  that  led  into  the  dining  room, 
and  saw  Mrs.  Sniffen  in  the  butler's  pantry  beyond. 

"Hello,  Xantippe,"  he  said;  "how's  the  minx?" 

Mrs.  Sniffen  placed  a  cup  of  hot  clam  broth  upon  a 
tray. 

"Mr.  Barry,"  she  said  in  an  oddly  altered  voice,  "that 
child  is  sick.     She  couldn't  keep  her  breakfast  down." 

"For  heaven's  sake " 

"I  made  her  some  broth  for  luncheon.  No  use  at  all. 
She  couldn't  keep  it." 

"What  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with  her?"  he  de- 
manded nervously. 

"Starvation.  That's  my  idea,  sir.  She's  that  bony,  Mr. 
Barry — no  flesh  on  'er  except  'er  'ands  and  face, — and  every 
rib  to  be  seen  plain  as  my  nose!" 

"You  think  she  hasn't  had  enough  to  eat?" 


E  R I  S  86 

"That,  and  the  stuff  she  did  eat — and  what  with  walking 
the  streets  in  this  'eat  and  sleeping  out  in  the  Park " 

Mrs.  Sniffen  hauled  up  the  duml>-waiter  and  lifted  off  a 
covered  dish. 

"Toasted  biscuit,"  she  explained.  "She  can't  a-bear  any- 
thing 'earty,  Mr.  Barry." 

"Well,"  he  said,  troubled,  "what  are  we  going  to  do  with 
her?" 

"That's  for  you  to  say,  sir.     You  brought  'er  'ere." 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Sniffen  and  thought  he  detected  a  glim- 
mer of  satisfaction  at  his  predicament. 

"Where  is  she  ?"  he  asked. 

"In  bed,  sir.  She  wants  to  dress  and  go  away  but  I 
wouldn't  'ave  it,  Mr.  Barry.  Ambulance  and  'ospital — 
that's  what  would  'appen  next.  And  I  'ad  a  time  with  her, 
Mr.  Barry.  She  said  she  was  in  the  way  and  didn't  want 
to  give  trouble.  Hup  she  must  get  and  h'off  to  the  streets — 
But  I  'ad  'er  clothes  I  did,  soaking  in  my  tubs.  ...  I  lef'er 
cry.  I  don't  say  it  'urt  'er,  either.  It  'elped,  according 
to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"She  can't  go  if  she's  ill,"  he  said;  and  looked  at  Mrs. 
Sniffen  rather  helplessly :  "Do  you  think  I'd  better  call  in 
a  doctor?" 

"No,  sir.  I  don't  mind  looking  out  for  her,  A  little 
care  is  all  she  needs." 

After  a  moment's  frowning  reflection :  "It  wiH  be  awk- 
ward to-night,"  he  suggested. 

Mrs.  Sniffen's  nose  went  up:  "The  ladies  will  'ave  to 
powder  their  faces  in  your  room,  Mr.  Barry,  and  keep  their 
'ands  off  the  piano." 

He  scowled  at  the  prospect,  then:  "Here,  give  me  that 
tray.     I'll  feed  her  myself." 

He  went  upstairs  with  the  tray,  knocked  at  the  closed 
door. 

"Tuck  yourself  in,"  he  called  to  her.  "I've  come  to 
nourish  you.     All  set?" 


86  ERIS 

After  a  few  moments :     "Yes,"  she  said  calmly. 

He  went  in.  She  sat  huddled  up  in  bed,  swathed  to 
the  throat  in  a  blue  crash  bath-robe. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed  gaily,  "I  hear  unruly  reports  about 
you.  What  do  you  mean  by  demanding  to  get  up  and 
beat  it?" 

"I  can't  expect  you  to  keep  me  here,  Mr.  Annan.  I've 
been  so  much  trouble  already " 

"This  is  clam  broth.  I  think  you  can  keep  it  down.  Sip 
it  slowly.     There  are  toasted  crackers,  too " 

He  placed  the  tray  on  her  knees. 

"Now,"  he  said,  encouragingly,  "be  a  sport  1" 

"I'll  try." 

The  process  of  absorption  was  a  slow  one.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  there  were  dark  smears  under  her  eyes.  Her 
bobbed  chestnut  hair  accented  the  slender  purity  of  face  and 
neck.  Her  hands  seemed  plump,  but  the  bath-robe  sleeve 
revealed  a  wrist  and  forearm  much  too  thin. 

"How  does  it  feel?"  he  inquired,  when  the  cup  was  empty. 

Eris  flushed.  He  saw  that  it  embarrassed  her  to  discuss 
bodily  ills  with  him.  Memory  of  her  morning  sickness 
deepened  the  painful  tint  in  her  cheeks : 

"I  don't  know — know  what  to  say  to  you, — I  am  so 
ashamed,"  she  faltered. 

"Eris!"  he  interrupted  sharply. 

She  looked  up,  startled,  her  grey  eyes  brilliant  with  unshed 
tears,  and  saw  the  boyish  grin  on  his  face. 

"No  weeps,"  he  said.  "No  apologies.  It's  no  trouble  to 
have  you  here.  And  here  you  remain,  my  gay  and  inde- 
pendent little  friend,  until  you're  fit  to  resume  this  discon- 
certing career  of  yours." 

"I  feel  well  enough  to  dress,  if  Mrs.  Sniffen  would  give 
me  my  clothes." 

"Where  would  you  go?" 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Look,"  he  said,  laying  a  hundred  dollar  bill  on  the 


ERIS  87 

counterpane,  "I  did  your  story  this  morning.  Here's  your 
commission." 

"Please— I  can't " 

"Then  I  shall  tear  up  my  story  and  hand  back  to  the 
Planet  six  hundred  dollars  that  I  need  very  badly." 

She  gave  him  such  a  piteous  look  that  he  laughed. 

That  matter  settled,  he  relieved  her  of  the  tray,  set  it  out- 
side, and  returned  to  seat  himself  in  a  rocking-chair  beside 
the  bed. 

"When  they  pull  the  galley  proofs  of  your  story,  would 
you  like  to  read  them,  Eris?" 

"Yes,  if  I  may." 

"Why  not  ?     It's  your  story." 

"About— mer 

"It's  the  story  of  Eris.  I  call  it  'The  Gilded  Apple.'  It's 
sob-stuff.  You  begin  to  whimper  after  the  first  five  hun- 
dred words.  Then  it  degenerates  into  a  snivel,  and  finally 
culminates  in  one  heart-shattering  sob." 

She  had  begun  to  understand  his  flippancy.  And  now  her 
smile  glimmered  responsive  to  his. 

"If  it's  really  about  me,"  she  said,  "why  is  the  story 
tragic  ?" 

"I  gave  a  tragic  turn  to  our  adventure,"  he  explained. 

"How?" 

"I  made  myself  out  a  bad  sort.  That  was  the  situation, — 
a  nice  girl  out  o'  luck,  a  rotter,  a  quick  etching  in  of  the  Park 
situation — then  through  remorseless  logic  I  finish  you  in  the 
spotlight.  You're  done  for;  but  I  drift  away  through  dark- 
ness, complacent,  furtive,  dangerous, — the  bacteriological 
symbol  of  cosmic  corruption, — the  Eternal  Cad." 

From  the  first  moment  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  Park 
the  night  before,  his  every  word  had  fascinated  her. 

Never  before  had  she  been  in  contact  with  that  sort  of 
mind,  with  the  vocabulary  that  was  his,  with  words  employed 
as  he  employed  them.     The  things  this  man  did  with  words ! 

Not  that  she  always  understood  them,  or  their  intent,  or 


88  E  R  I  S 

the  true  intent  of  the  man  who  uttered  them.  But  this  man's 
speech  had  seemed,  suddenly,  to  have  awakened  her  from 
sleep.  And,  awakened,  everything  he  said 'vaguely  excited 
her. 

Blind,  unknown  forces  within  her  stirred  when  he  spoke. 
Her  mind  quivered  in  response ;  her  very  blood  seemed  stimu- 
lated. It  was  as  though,  shrouding  her  mind,  vast  cloudy 
curtains  were  opening  to  disclose  undreamed  of  depths 
darkly  pulsating  with  veiled  brilliancy.  Out,  into  inter- 
stellar space,  lay  the  road  to  Truth. 

She  thought  of  her  dream — of  her  wings.  She  lay  look- 
ing at  Annan,  waiting  for  words. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  oddly  ?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"I  like  what  you  say." 

"About  what?" 

"About  anything." 

No  man  is  proof  against  the  surprise  and  pleasure  of  so 
naive  an  avowal.  Annan  reddened,  laughed,  flattered  and  a 
little  touched  by  his  power  to  please  so  easily. 

Looking  at  her  very  amiably  and  complacently,  he  won- 
dered what  effect  he  might  have  on  this  odd  little  pilgrim 
if  he  chose  to  exert  himself.  He  could  be  really  eloquent 
when  he  chose.  It  was  good  practice.  It  gave  him  facility 
in  his  stories. 

Considering  her,  now,  a  half -smile  touching  his  lips,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  here,  in  her,  he  saw  his  audience  in 
the  flesh.  This  was  what  his  written  words  did  to  his  read- 
ers. His  skill  held  their  attention ;  his  persuasive  technique, 
unsuspected,  led  them  where  he  guided.  His  cleverness 
meddled  with  their  intellectual  emotions.  The  more  primi- 
tive felt  it  physically,  too. 

When  he  dismissed  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page 
they  went  away  about  their  myriad  vocations.  But  his 
brand  was  on  their  hearts.  They  were  his — these  countless 
listeners  whom  he  had  never  seen — never  would  see. 

But  he  had  spoken,  and  they  were  his 


ERIS  89 

He  checked  his  agreeable  revery.  This  wouldn't  do. 
He  was  becoming  smug.  Reaction  brought  the  inevitable 
note  of  alarm.  Suppose  his  audience  tired  of  him.  Sup- 
pose he  lost  them.  Chastened,  he  realised  what  his  audience 
meant  to  him, — these  thousands  of  unknown  people  whose 
minds  he  titivated,  whose  reason  he  juggled  with,  and  whose 
heart-strings  he  yanked,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"Eris,"  he  said  with  much  modesty,  "have  you  ever  read 
any  of  my  stuff  ?" 

"No.     May  I  ?"  she  asked,  shyly. 

"I  wish  you  would.     I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think  of 

it "     Always  with  her  in  his  mind  typifying  the  average 

reader, "I'll  get  you  my  last  Sunday's  story "    He 

jumped  up  and  sped  away  like  a  boy  eager  to  exhibit  some 
new  treasure. 

When  he  returned  from  his  own  room  with  the  Sunday 
edition,  Eris  was  lying  back  on  her  pillows.  Something 
about  the  girl  suddenly  touched  him. 

"You  poor  little  thing,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry  you're  down 
and  out." 

Her  grey  eyes  regarded  him  with  a  sort  of  astonished 
incredulity,  as  though  unable  to  comprehend  why  he  should 
concern  himself  with  so  slight  a  creature  as  herself. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  BOUT  eight  that  evening  Annan  knocked  and  entered, 
•*^  and  found  Eris  intent  on  beef  tea. 

"How  are  you  ?"  he  asked  in  his  winning,  easy  way,  lean- 
ing down  to  look  at  her,  and  to  inspect  the  broth. 

Her  awe  of  him  and  his  golden  tongue  made  her  diffident. 
She  tried  now  to  respond  to  his  light,  informal  kindness, — 
meet  it  part  way. 

She  said,  shyly,  that  she  was  quite  recovered, — sat  em- 
barrassed under  his  amiable  scrutiny,  too  bashful  to  continue 
eating. 

"I'm  having  two  or  three  people  to  dinner,"  he  remarked, 
adjusting  the  camelia  in  his  button-hole.  "I  hope  we  won't 
be  noisy.     If  we  keep  you  awake,  pound  on  the  floor." 

She  thought  that  humorous.  They  both  smiled.  She 
looked  at  the  camelia  in  the  lappel  of  his  dinner  jacket.  He 
leaned  over  and  let  her  smell  it. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  with  that  caressing  accent  of  personal 
interest  which  in  such  men  is  merely  normal  affability,  "do 
you  really  begin  to  feel  better?" 

She  flushed,  thanked  him  in  a  troubled  voice.  Mustering 
courage : 

"I  know  I  must  be  in  the  way  here,"  she  ventured;  "I 
could  get  up  and  dress,  if  you'd  let  me,  Mr.  Annan " 

"Dress?    And  go  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Go  where?" 

"You  forget  what  you've  given  me.  I  have  plenty  of 
money  to  take  a  room." 

90 


E  R  I  S  91 

"Do  you  mean  that  commission  which  brought  me  in  five 
hundred  dollars?" 

"You  pretend  it  is  that  way.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  mean  that 
money." 

"You  funny  child,  I  don't  want  you  to  get  up  and  dress. 
You  can't  go  yet.    You're  not  in  the  way  here." 

She  said,  solemn  and  tremulous :  "I'll  never  forget — ^your 
kindness " 

"When  you're  quite  well  again  we'll  talk  over  things," 
he  said  cheerily.  He  was  thinking  that  if  she  found  him 
so  persuasive  he'd  have  little  trouble  in  starting  her  home- 
ward. 

The  front  doorbell  rang.  He  got  up,  gave  her  arm  a 
friendly  little  pat. 

"I'll  look  in  later,"  he  said,  "if  you're  still  awake." 

He  went  away,  lightly.  She  followed  him  with  fathom- 
less grey  eyes;  listened  to  his  steps  descending  the  stairs — 
heard  his  gay  greeting,  the  voices  of  arriving  guests — 
women's  laughter — the  deeper  voice  of  another  man.  After 
a  little  while  she  continued  her  interrupted  dinner,  gravely. 

Mrs,  Sniffen  iirrived  presently.  She  seemed  as  starched, 
as  rigid,  as  angular  and  prim  as  ever.  But  there  was  no 
disdainful  tilt  to  her  sharp  nose.  For  the  Mrs.  Sniffen  who 
now  approached  Eris  was  not  the  chilling  automaton  who 
had  just  admitted  Annan's  dinner  guests  with  priggish  dis- 
approval, 

Eris,  shy  of  her,  looked  up  at  her  in  some  apprehension. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sniffen  with  a  wintry  smile,  "you 
did  eat  it  all,  didn't  you?  That's  the  way  to  grow  'ealthy 
(md  wealthy,  not  to  say  wise,  isn't  it,  now?  'Ome  vittles 
'elps  all  'urts,  big  or  little,  to  my  way  of  thinking," 

"I  enjoyed  it  so  much,  thank  you,"  murmured  Eris. 

"And  glad  I  am  to  'ear  you  say  it.  Miss.  'Ave  you  quite 
finished?" 

"Yes,  thank  you  very  much." 

Mrs,  Sniffen  took  the  tray,  hesitated  by  the  bedside : 


M  ERIS 

"I  'ope,"  she  said,  "that  you  will  soon  be  well.  Miss.  .  .  . 
New  York  is  just  as  bad  as  London,  every  bit !  I  know  them 
both.  Missy;  and  they're  both  uncommon  nasty." 

"I  like  New  York,"  said  Eris,  shyly. 

Mrs.  Sniffen's  nose  went  up  with  a  jerk. 

"And  sorry  I  am  to  hear  you  say  it,"  she  retorted  severely. 
"Them  that  has  nice  clean  *omes  in  the  nice  clean  country- 
side don't  realise  their  blessings,  according  to  my  way  of 
thinking." 

"Did  you  ever  live  in  the  cotmtry?"  ventured  Eris. 

"Tumham  Green,  Miss." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"London.  It  was  all  dirt  and  gin  and  barracks  when  I 
was  a  kiddy.  If  I'd  a  pretty  'ome  in  the  nice  clean  country- 
side like  you,  Miss,  I'd  be  biding  there  yet,  no  doubt." 

Eris  shook  her  bobbed  head :  "I  had  to  come  where  I  cam 
have  a  chance  to  learn  something." 

"And  what,  may  I  ask,  Miss,  would  you  learn  'ereabouts  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Sniffen  with  elaborate  irony.  "There's  little 
to  learn  in  New  York  that's  good  for  a  body.  It's  only  a 
big,  'ot,  dirty  merry-go-round, — what  with  the  outrageous 
noise  and  crowds  and  hurry  and  scurry,  and  wild  capers  and 
goings-on.  No,  Miss,  you'll  learn  nothing  'elpful  'ere,  de- 
pend upon  it!" 

Eris  said,  thoughtfully:  "Only  where  are  many  people 
gathered  is  there  the  foundation  for  a  real  education.  .  .  . 
Good  and  evil  are.  .  .  .  Only  truth  matters.  The  impor- 
tant thing  is  to  know." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  demanded  Mrs.  Sniffen,  amazed 
to  hear  such  authoritative  language. 

"Nobody.  But  I'm  quite  sure  it's  so.  Books  alone  do 
not  educate.  They  are  like  roughage  for  cattle.  There  is  no 
nourishment  in  them  but  they  help  to  digest  Truth.  I  wish 
to  see  and  hear  for  myself,  and  learn  to  understand  in  my 
own  way.  .  .  .  What  my  eyes  and  ears  tell  me  is  what  I 
ought  to  think  about  and  try  to  understand.    And  I  believe 


ERIS  98 

this  is  more  important  than  reading  in  books  what  other 
people  think  of  what  they  have  seen  and  heard." 

"God  bless  her  baby- face !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sniifen,  exas- 
perated. "Where  does  a  kiddy  find  such  notions,  and  the 
outlandish  words  for  them,  now?  What  are  young  folk 
coming  to,  any'ow,  gypsying  about  the  world  as  they  please 
these  crazy  days?  It's  a  bad  world.  Missy,  and  the  worst 
of  it  settles  in  big  cities  like  rancid  grease  in  .a  sink.  .  .  . 
Not  that  I'm  the  kind  to  push  my  nose  into  others'  busi- 
ness. I  know  better.  No,  Miss,  I've  troubles  enough  to 
mind  of  my  own,  I  'ave.  But  when  I  see  a  polite  and  well 
mannered  young  person  turn  her  back  on  'ealth  and  'ome 
to  come  to  a  nasty,  rotten  place  like  New  York  and  sleep  in 
the  public  parks  at  that,  'ow  can  I  'elp  expressing  my  opin- 
ion ?  I  can't  'elp  expressing  it.  I'm  bound  to  say  you  ought 
to  go  'ome ;  and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  me  all  my  days  if  I 
'adn't  spoken !" 

She  seemed  to  be  in  a  temper.  She  marched  out  with  her 
tray,  her  starched  skirts  bristling,  her  nose  high.  Opening 
the  door,  she  looked  back  wrathfuUy  at  Eris,  hesitated,  door- 
knob gripped : 

"I'll  'ave  some  chicken  for  you  before  you  sleep,"  she 
snapped ;  and  dosed  the  door  with  a  distinct  bang. 

Downstairs,  Annan  had  entertained  three  friends  at 
dinner — Coltfoot,  Rosalind  Shore,  and  Betsy  Blythe. 

Of  the  making  of  moving  pictures  there  is  no  end — until 
the  sheriff  enters.  And  Miss  Blythe  helped  make  as  many 
pictures  as  her  rather  brief  career  had,  so  far,  permitted. 

She  was  to  have  her  own  company  now.  The  people 
interested  finally  had  "come  across";  Betsy  talked  volubly 
at  dinner.  Gaiety,  excitement  and  congratulations  reigned 
and  rained. 

Rosalind  Shore,  another  stellar  debutante,  already  in  her 
first  season,  had  won  her  place  in  musical  comedy.  She 
was  one  of  those  dark-eyed,  white-skinned,  plumply  grace- 


94  E  R  I  S 

ful  girls,  very  lazy  but  saturated  with  talent.  Which,  how- 
ever, would  have  meant  little  beyond  the  chorus  unless  her 
mother,  an  ex-professional,  had  literally  clubbed  musical  and 
dramatic  education  into  her. 

Indolent,  but  immensely  clever,  little  Miss  Shore's  girl- 
hood had  been  one  endless  hell  of  maternal  maulings.  She 
was  whipped  if  she  neglected  voice  and  piano;  beaten  if  she 
shirked  dramatic  drill;  kicked  into  dancing  school,  and 
spanked  if  she  loitered  late  away  from  home.  Yet  she'd 
never  have  been  anybody  otherwise. 

She  had  Jewish  blood  in  her.  She  was  distractingly 
pretty. 

"Mom's  a  terror,"  she  used  to  remark,  reflectively.  "She 
thumped  me  till  I  saw  so  many  stars  that  I  turned  into 
one." 

She  sang  the  lead  in  "The  Girl  from  Jersey" — into  which 
a  vigorous  kick  from  her  mother  had  landed  her,  to  puzzle  a 
public  which  never  before  had  heard  of  Rosalind  Shore. 

The  show  ran  until  July  and  was  to  resume  in  Sep- 
tember. 

The  girlhood  of  Bettina— -or  Betsy — Blythe,  had  been 
very  different.  She  was  one  of  a  swiftly  increasing  num- 
ber of  well-bom  girls  whom  society  had  welcomed  as 
debutantes,  and  who,  after  a  first  season,  and  great  amateur 
success  in  the  Junior  League,  had  calmly  informed  her 
family  that  she  had  made  a  contract  with  some  celluloid 
corporation  to  appear  in  moving  pictures. 

New  York  society  was  becoming  accustomed  to  this  sort 
of  behaviour.  It  had  to  be.  From  the  time  that  the  na- 
tion's war-bugles  sounded  assembly  at  Armageddon,  the 
younger  generation  had  taken  the  bit  between  its  firm  teeth. 
Nothing  had  yet  checked  them.  They  still  were  running 
away. 

In  Annan's  little  drawing-room,  where  coffee  had  been 
served,  the  excited  chatter  continued  to  turn  around  Betsy's 


ERIS  96 

brand  new  company, — this  event  being  the  reason  for  the 
dinner. 

Every  capitalist  involved  was  discussed,  and  pulled  to 
quivering  pieces;  every  officer  and  director  in  the  Betsy 
Blythe  Company,  Inc.  was  dissected  under  the  merciless 
scrutiny  of  four  young  people  who  already  had  learned  in 
New  York  to  believe  only  what  happened,  and  to  turn  deaf 
ears  to  mere  words. 

"Listen,  Betsy,"  said  Rosalind  Shore,  "Mom  says  you're 
all  right  with  Cairo  Cotton  and  Levant  Tobacco  behind 
you." 

"The  main  thing,"  remarked  Coltfoot,  "is  to  begin  in  a 
businesslike  way.  Don't  start  off  staggering  under  a  load 
of  overheads,  Betsy.  Don't  let  them  take  expensive  offices. 
The  people  who'll  use  'em  would  have  to  sit  in  a  Mills  Hotel 
if  you  didn't  provide  a  loafing  place  for  them. 

"And  don't  spill  money  down  the  coal  hole  for  a  plant. 
When  you  need  a  studio,  hire  it  for  the  length  of  time  you 
expect  to  use  it.  Hire  everything.  Spend  your  money  on 
the  people  who'll  bring  it  back  to  you,  not  on  human  objects 
d'art  and  period  furniture." 

"I  know,"  said  Betsy,  "but  I  can't  control  those  things, 
can  I?" 

Annan  said:  "Perhaps  you  can.  You  know,  socially, 
some  of  the  people  who  are  putting  up  the  money.  Harry 
Sneyd  has  to  accoimt  to  them.  He's  handling  you  and  you 
can  handle  him." 

"You  can  see  to  it,"  said  Coltfoot,  "that  Levant  Tobacco 
isn't  used  to  pension  a  bunch  of  bums  and  dumb-bells.  You 
can  see  to  it  that  the  money  is  spent  where  it  ought  to  be 
spent.  Your  people  have  got  real  money.  You  can't  buy 
a  good  story  for  nothing;  you  can't  buy  a  good  director  or 
a  good  camera-man  for  nothing.  Those  are  the  people  to 
pay." 

Rosalind  nodded:  "And  low  pedal  on  art-directors  and 
carpenters,"  she  added.     "I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  need  all  I 


96  ERIS 

get.  Scenery  is  on  the  toboggan,  sister  Bettina.  You  don't 
want  expensive  sets.  Neither  does  your  audience.  It  wants 
you.  And  it  wants  your  story.  So  don't  let  your  bunch 
start  rebuilding  devastated  France  in  your  back  yard  when 
a  corner  in  a  hall  bedroom  will  do.  .  .  .  It  will  always  do 
if  the  story  and  the  acting  go  over.  I  don't  have  to  tell 
you  that,  either." 

"No  interior  ever  made  a  picture,"  agreed  Annan,  "and 
no  exterior  ever  saved  one.  But  I'd  go  as  far  as  I  liked 
on  the  scenery  that  you  don't  have  to  pay  God  for." 

Miss  Blythe  laughed:  "Are  you  going  to  do  a  story  for 
me,  Barry?"  she  asked.  "You  promised — when  you  were 
in  love  with  me." 

"I  am  yet.  But  your  people  don't  like  sob-stuff  any  bet- 
ter than  does  Rosalind's  audience." 

"You  don't  have  to  squirt  tears  into  every  story  you 
write,"  retorted  Betsy.  "Did  you  aver  see  me  cry?  There 
are  people,  Barry,  who  manage  to  get  on  without  snivelling 
every  minute." 

"I  never  cry,"  remarked  Rosalind;  "Mom  spanked  the 
last  tear  out  of  me  years  ago."  She  rose  and  moved 
indolently  to  the  piano. 

Few  professional  pianists  were  better  at  her  age, — thanks 
to  "Mom,"  who  had  been  a  celebrated  one. 

Rosalind  talked  and  idled  at  the  keys,  played,  chattered, 
sang  enchantingly,  killed  loveliness  with  a  jest,  slew  beauty 
to  light  a  cigarette,  cursed  with  caprice  the  charming  theme 
developing  or,  capriciously  and  tenderly  protected,  nourished 
and  cared  for  it  until  it  grew  to  exquisitive  maturity.  Then 
strangled  it  with  a  "rag." 

"You  little  devil,"  said  Betsy,  tremulous  under  the  spell — 
"I  wouldn't  strangle  my  own  offspring  as  you  do! — I 
couldn't "    Emotion  checked  her. 

Rosalind  laughed :  "It  doesn't  matter  when  one  can  have 
all  the  offspring  one  wants.  .  .  .  You'll  never  get  on  if 
you're  too  serious,  Bettina  mia." 


ERIS  97 

"That's  your  friend  Barry  talking,  not  you*'  retorted 
Betsy.  "He  can  get  away  with  it — sitting  all  alone  in  a 
stuffy  room  where  his  readers  can't  see  him  writing  sob- 
stuff  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  But  you  and  I  had  better 
wear  faces  that  can  be  safely  watched,  my  Rosalinda  child !" 

"I  want  to  ask  you,"  said  Rosalind,  turning  to  Annan, 
"whether  an  audience  can  surmise  what  sort  of  private 
life  one  leads  merely  from  watching  one  on  the  stage  or 
screen." 

"I  think  so,  in  a  measure,"  he  replied. 

"Then  it  does  pay  to  behave,"  concluded  Betsy,  walking 
to  a  mirror  to  inspect  herself.  "Not  guilty — so  far,"  she 
added,  powdering  her  nose;  " — am  I,  Barry?" 

"Old  Jule  Caesar's  wife  was  a  schmeer  in  comparison," 
he  agreed. 

"I'll  tell  you,  young  man,"  she  remarked,  "I've  found  the 
Broadway  atmosphere  healthier  than  it  is  in  some  New  York 
younger  sets." 

"Is  that  one  answer  to  why  do  young  men  haimt  stage 
doors?"  inquired  Coltfoot. 

"You  miserable  cynic,"  retorted  Betsy,  "the  sort  of  young 
man  who  does  that  belongs  in  the  sets  I  mentioned." 

"Anyway,"  added  Rosalind,  with  lazy  humour,  "you  and 
Barry  are  spending  a  perfectly  good  evening  as  close  to  the 
stage  as  you  can  get.     Why?" 

"Why,"  added  Betsy,  "do  men  prefer  women  of  the 
stage?" 

"Good  God,"  said  Coltfoot,  "take  any  Sunday  supplement 
and  compare  the  faces  of  Newport  and  Broadway.  That's 
one  reason  out  of  hundreds." 

"Few  men  chase  a  face  that  makes  them  ache,"  added 
Barry,  "even  if  the  atmosphere  in  some  sets  smells  of  the 
stage  door.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  beautiful  Betsy,  why  you  don't 
canter  about  very  much  in  your  own  gold-plated  and  ex- 
clusive social  corral  ?" 

"Because,"  she  replied  tranquilly,  "I  have  a  better  time 


98  E  R I  S 

with  the  people  I  meet  professionally  .  .  .  mavericks  from 
the  gold-plated  corral  like  you,  for  instance.  You  and  Mike 
and  Rosalind  are  more  amusing  than  Sally  Snitface  or 
Percy  Pinhead.    And  you're  far  more  moral." 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  moral,"  mused  Rosalind,  shaking  the 
cracked  ice  in  her  glass. 

"God,  your  mother  and  your  native  laziness  incline  you 
that  way,"  said  Barry,  gravely.  "You're  better  than  good; 
you're  apathetic.    Inertia  will  see  you  through." 

"It  takes  energy  to  be  a  devil,"  added  Coltfoot.  "Your 
perfect  angel  snoozes  on  a  cloud.  She's  too  lazy  to  walk. 
That's  why  she  grew  wings  and  why  you  take  taxi-cabs, 
Rosalind." 

"I  do.  I  use  my  legs  sufficiently  on  the  stage,  thank 
you.    Also,  I  admit  I  like  to  snooze." 

"Angel,"  said  Betsy  from  the  mirror,  "lend  me  your  lip- 
stick." And,  to  Annan:  "May  I  ascend  to  the  rear  room 
and  make  up  properly?" 

"No,  go  into  my  room." 

"But  there's  no  dressing  table  there "  starting  to 

go. 

"You  can't  go  up  there,"  he  repeated.     "I  mean  it." 

The  girl  turned:  "Oh,  is  there  a  lady  there?"  she  asked 
with  that  flippant  freedom  fashionable  in  certain  sets,  but 
mostly  due  to  ignorance. 

"There  is,"  said  Annan,  coolly. 

Rosalind  did  not  believe  it,  but  she  said  carelessly: 
"That's  rather  disgusting  if  it's  true." 

"It's  true,"  said  Coltfoot.  He  sketched  the  story.  Rosa- 
lind, who  had  been  sagging  picturesquely,  sat  up  straight. 
Betsy  listened  incredulously  at  first,  then  with  knitted  brows. 

"I  mean  to  ship  her  back  to  the  old  farm,"  added  Annan. 
"She  needs  a  wet-nurse " 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Miss  Blythe  abruptly. 

"Well,  she  isn't  on  exhibition,"  returned  Annan  in  a  dry 
voice. 


ERIS  99 

"Can't  I  see  her?" 

"Put  yourself  in  her  place.  Would  you  feel  comfortable, 
lying  in  the  guest  bed  of  a  strange  man?  And  would  you 
care  to  have  a  fashionably  gowned  girl  come  flying  in  to 
stare  at  you  ?" 

Betsy  gazed  at  him  scarcely  listening.  She  turned  to 
Rosalind : 

"If  she's  got  as  much  nerve  as  that,  couldn't  you  or  I  do 
something?'' 

"All  right,"  nodded  Rosalind. 

"You'd  better  let  her  go  home,"  said  Annan.  "She  has 
pluck  and  perhaps  talent,  but  she  hasn't  the  sense  to 
take  care  of  herself.  You  let  her  alone.  Bet,  do  you 
hear?" 

Betsy's  nose  went  up.  "Mind  your  business,  Barry,  If 
she  works  for  me  she  needn't  worry." 

"You'd  better  take  her  on,  then,"  said  Rosalind.  "Mom 
bangs  me  around  so  that  I'm  too  groggy  to  look  out  for 
anybody's  morals  except  my  own." 

Betsy  came  up  to  Annan  and  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders : 

"Let  me  see  her ;  I  shan't  eat  her.  I  might  use  her.  She's 
a  sandy  kid." 

"She's  twenty.    She  told  me  so,"  he  retorted. 

"It's  cruel  to  ship  her  back  to  the  cows,  Barry,  when  she's 
gone  through  such  a  rotten  novitiate.  I  think  you're  taking 
a  great  responsibility  if  you  use  that  easy  and  persuasive 
tongue  of  yours  to  send  her  back  to  the  stupidity  she  ran 
away  from.     Don't  you?" 

Rosalind  said  to  her:  "There's  no  point  in  your  pawing 
Barry  Annan.  I've  done  it.  He  lets  you.  Then  he  does 
what  he  pleases." 

Annan  grinned  faintly:  Betsy  suddenly  slapped  his  face, 
not  hard. 

"That  complacent  smirk !"  she  said,  exasperated. 

Before  Annan  guessed  what  she  was  about,  she  turned  and 


100  E  R  I  S 

ran  upstairs.  He  followed,  too  late.  The  guest-room  door 
opened  and  slammed,  and  he  heard  the  key  turn  inside. 

He  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  laughing  but  irritated. 

"Little  meddlesome  devil,"  he  said,  "talking  to  me  of 
responsibility !  Here's  where  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  Eris 
kid.    It's  Betsy's  deal  now." 

It  was. 

Eris,  listening  to  the  laughter  and  music  below,  lying 
wide-eyed  on  her  pillow,  sat  up  startled  and  wider  yet  of 
eye  when  a  scurry  and  flurry  of  scented  skirts,  followed  by 
the  clash  of  a  swiftly  locked  door  landed  Betsy  Blythe  at 
her  bedside. 

She  stared  at  the  breathless  vision  of  flushed  beauty,  too 
astounded  to  think  of  herself  and  her  position. 

Down  on  the  bed's  edge  dropped  Miss  Bl)rthe,  radiant, 
cheeks  and  eyes  still  brilliant  from  her  victory. 

"I'm  Betsy  Blythe,"  she  said.  "I  heard  about  you.  How 
fine  and  plucky  of  you!  What  a  perfectly  rotten  experi- 
ence! .  .  .  Tell  me  your  name,  won't  you?" 

"Eris  Odell,"  said  the  girl  mechanically,  still  under  the 
spell  of  this  sudden  brightness  which  seemed  to  fill  the 
whole  room  with  rose  colour, 

"My  dear,"  said  Betsy,  "please  forgive  me  for  coming 
in  on  my  head.  Mr.  Annan  tried  to  prevent  me.  You 
mustn't  blame  him.  But  when  I  heard  how  plucky  you  are 
I  simply  had  to  come  up  and  tell  you  that  I'm  going  to  ask 
my  manager  to  take  you  on.  I  haven't  seen  our  first  script 
They're  doing  the  continuity  now.  But  I'm  sure  there  must 
be  something — something,  at  least,  to  start  you  going — so 
you  won't  need  to  sleep  in  the  park — you  poor  child " 

She  impulsively  caressed  one  of  the  hands  that  lay  on 
the  quilt ;  retained  it,  looking  at  Eris  with  increasing  interest 
and  kindness.  Suddenly,  for  one  fleeting  moment,  the  subtle 
warning  that  a  pretty  woman  feels  in  discovering  greater 
beauty  in  another,  touched  Betsy  Blythe.    And  passed. 


E  R I  S  101 

"rm  in  pictures,"  she  said,  smilingly.  "I  should  have  told 
you  that  first.  I  have  my  own  company  now.  When  you 
are  quite  recovered,  will  you  come  and  see  me?" 

"Yes,  thank  you."  The  eyes  of  Eris  were  great  wells  of 
hmpid  grey ;  her  lips,  a  trifle  apart,  burned  deep  scarlet. 

"You  are  so  pretty,"  said  Betsy, — "do  you  test  well?" 

"They  thought  so." 

"The  Crystal  Fihn  people?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  have  Mr.  Sneyd  give  you  another  test.  He'll  make 
you  up.  Or  I  will.  You  know,  of  course,  that  it  won't  be  a 
part  that  amounts  to  anything." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"But  it  will  be  a  part.    We'll  carry  you — not  like  an  extra, 

you  see "    Betsy  rose,  went  over  to  a  little  desk,  wrote 

her  address  and  brought  it  to  Eris. 

"You  do  forgive  me  for  coming  in  to  see  you  this  crazy 
way,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — yes,  I  do "    Suddenly  the  grey  eyes  flashed 

tears. 

"You  sweet  child !"  said  Betsy  Blythe,  stooping  over  her. 
"You're  nice.  A  woman  can  tell,  no  matter  what  a  pig  of  a 
man  might  think.  I  like  you,  Eris.  I  want  you  to  get  on. 
I'd  love  to  have  you  make  good  some  day."  She  added 
naively:  " — If  only  to  put  Barry  Annan's  nose  out  of 
joint." 

Eris  had  covered  her  wet  lashes  with  her  fore-arm.  Now 
she  removed  it. 

"Mr.  Annan  has  been  wonderful,"  she  said  in  a  tear-con- 
gested voice. 

"Three  cheers!"  said  Betsy,  laughing.  "You're  a  loyal 
youngster,  aren't  you?  Everybody  likes  Barry  Annan. 
Several  love  him.  But  you  mustn't,"  she  added  with  a 
gravity  that  deceived  Eris. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "I  wouldn't  think  of  such  a 
thing." 


102  E  R  I  S 

At  that  Betsy's  clear  laughter  rang  out  in  the  room.  Eris 
blushed  furiously;  then,  suddenly  and  swiftly  en  rapport, 
laughed  too. 

"He's  so  nice  and  so  spoiled,"  said  Betsy.  "That  bland 
grin  of  his ! — and  he  is  clever — oh,  very.  He  knows  how  to 
make  your  heart  jump  when  he  writes.  In  private  char- 
acter he's  kind  but  mischievous.  He'll  experiment  with  a 
girl  if  she'll  let  him.  It  interests  him  to  try  cause  and  effect 
on  us.  Don't  you  let  him.  He  has  that  terrible  talent  for 
swift  intimacy.  That  caressing  courtesy,  that  engaging  and 
direct  interest  he  seems  to  take  in  whoever  he  is  with,  means 
no  more  than  a  natural  and  kindly  consideration  for  every- 
body. It  misleads  some  women.  I  don't  mean  he  does,  in- 
tentionally. Only  any  man,  seeing  a  pretty  girl  inclined  to 
be  flattered,  is  likely  to  investigate  further.  I  don't  blame 
him.    We  do  it,  too,  don't  we?" 

*T  never  did,"  said  Eris  naively. 

Betsy's  smile  faded  and  she  gave  Eris  a  sharp  look.  Then, 
abruptly,  she  took  both  her  hands  and  sat  regarding 
her. 

'T)\  tell  you  something,"  she  concluded,  finally.  "Men 
won't  fool  you :  you'll  fool  them." 

"I  shan't  try  to,"  said  Eris. 

"That's  how  you'll  do  it.  .  .  .  You're  unusual;  do  you 
realize  it  ?    What  is  it  that  interests  you  most  ?" 

"I  want  to  learn." 

"I  thought  so.  I've  known  one  or  two  girls  like  you. 
Pretty  ones.  .  .  .  Almost  as  pretty  as  you,  Eris.  They 
raise  the  devil  with  men." 

"How?"  asked  Eris,  astonished. 

"Merely  by  being  what  they  are, — absolutely  normal  un- 
der all  conditions.  Men  are  completely  fooled.  To  a  man, 
feminine  youth  and  beauty  mean  a  depthless  capacity  for 
sex  sentiment.  My  dear,  you  have  very  little  of  that  sort. 
»  .  .  Or,  if  you  have  any,  it's  the  normal  amount  and  is 
reserved  for  the  great  moment  in  life." 


E  R  I  S  108 

"What  is  the  great  moment  in  life?"  asked  Eris. 

"Love,  I  suppose." 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall  have  time  for  it,"  said  Eris, 
thoughtfully. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Betsy,  laughing.  "Don't  be 
un-human !" 

"Oh,  no.  ...  I  only  mean  that  it's — it's  a  thing  which 
has  not — occurred.  ...  I  have  not  thought  about  it,  much." 

"Nor  wished  for  it?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Still,"  said  Betsy,  smiling,  "we're  made  for  it,  you  know. 
.  .  .  That  is,  if  we're  quite  healthy." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Eris  absently. 

After  a  silence  Betsy  pressed  her  hands,  rose,  looked 
down  at  her  with  friendly  gaze. 

"I  ought  to  join  the  others.  You  won't  forget  to  come? 
Please  don't:  I'd  like  to  have  you  with  us.  Good  night, 
Eris.    Get  well  quickly !" 

As  she  was  going  out :  "Make  my  peace  with  Barry  An- 
nan," she  added.    "I'm  in  dutch  with  that  young  man." 

The  slangy  girl  really  was  not.  Annan,  at  the  piano, 
pounding  out  a  rag  while  Rosalind  and  Coltfoot  danced, 
merely  called  out  to  her  that  the  responsibility  for  Eris  Odell 
was  hers  from  that  moment  and  if  they  ever  found  the  girl 
in  the  river  it  was  none  of  his  doings. 

Betsy  smiled  scornfully:  "I'd  trust  that  girl  anywhere," 
she  said.  "Some  day  a  girl  like  Eris  will  teach  you  a  few 
new  steps  in  the  merry  dance  of  life,  Barry." 

"What  new  steps?"  He  continued  playing  but  looked 
curiously  up  at  Betsy,  who  had  come  over  beside  him. 

"You're  so  cocksure  of  yourself,"  she  said,  "aren't  you, 
dear?' 

"You  mean  I'm  a  prig?" 

"No,  just  a  very  clever,  good-looking  boy  with  kind  in- 
stincts and  a  fatal  facility.     You  think  you're  real.     You 


104  E  R»I  S 

think  you  write  realisms.  You'll  come  up  against  the  real 
thing  some  day.    TJten '* 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on!" 

"Why,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him,  "then  you'll  bump  your 
complacent  head,  my  dear.  That  will  be  reality.  And  may- 
be you'll  know  it  again  when  you  run  into  it.  Maybe  it  will 
rid  you  of  that  bland  grin." 

"That's  a  melting  smile,  not  a  grin,  darling," — pounding 
away  vigorously.  "But  tell  me  about  this  'real  thing'  that 
I'm  to  crack  my  noodle  on." 

"A  girl,  ducky." 

"Sure.     I'm  cracked  already  on  *em  all." 

"The  one  I  mean  is  named  Nemesis  and  she'll  knock  your 
silly  head  off.  .  .  .  Like  that  child  upstairs,  for  example." 

"She's  got  a  Greek  name,  too.  I'd  better  remember  to 
'fear  the  Greeks' — yes?" 

"Little  Eris  could  double  you  up." 

"Wh-at?" 

"I  don't  mean  Eris  in  particular,  dear  friend.  But  one 
of  her  species." 

"What's  her  species?" 

"You,  a  writer! — and  you  haven't  even  doped  her  out!" 
"I  have,  however,"  he  contradicted  her  tranquilly. 

"All  right.     Analyse  her  for  me." 

"Quantitatively?" 

"Certainly." 

"Here  she  is  then:  clean,  plucky,  uneducated,  obstinate, 
immature;  and,  like  any  other  girl,  perfectly  pliable  when 
properly  handled  by  an  expert." 

"Your 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  tweetums " 

"You  don't  have  to  say  it.  But  I'm  glad  you  think  you're 
an  expert.  For  it's  going  to  be  tltat  kind  of  girl  who  will 
some  day  put  a  crimp  in  you,  Barry,  and  teach  you  what 
you  don't  know  anything  about." 

"What's  that,  Rose  of  my  Harem?" 


E  R  I  S  105 

"Women,"  she  said  maliciously,  "and  you  make  a  living 
by  writing  about  them.  And  the  Great  American  Ass  be- 
lieves you  know  what  you're  writing  about !" 

Coltfoot  telephoned  for  his  car  after  midnight  and  drove 
Annan's  fair  guests  homeward. 

Annan,  born  with  a  detestation  for  sleep,  locked  up  and 
put  out  the  lights  unwillingly. 

As  he  passed  Eris'  door  on  his  way  to  his  room,  he  halted 
a  moment,  listening. 

"Are  you  awake,  Eris?"  he  asked  in  a  modulated  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"That's  fine!"  he  exclaimed.  "May  I  come  in  for  a  mo- 
ment ?" 

"Yes,  please." 

Her  light  was  on.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  When  he 
caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  radiant  face,  flushed  with 
happy  excitement,  he  scarcely  recognised  the  pinched  and 
pallid  girl  of  the  park.  In  his  astonishment  he  thought  her 
the  prettiest  thing  he  remembered  ever  seeing;  stood  silent, 
quite  overwhelmed  by  the  unfamiliar  beauty  of  the  girl. 

Entirely  unconscious  of  admiration,  she  smiled  enchant- 
ingly — a  piquant  and  really  charming  picture  in  her  bath- 
robe and  bobbed  hair. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  "for  asking  Miss  Blythe 
to  see  me.  She  pretended  you  wouldn't  let  her  come,  but  I 
knew  she  was  joking.  Miss  Blythe  asked  me  to  join  her  own 
company.     I  simply  can't  sleep  for  thinking  of  it." 

He  came  over  to  the  bedside  and  took  a  chair. 

"Eris,"  he  said,  "I  really  didn't  want  Miss  Blythe  to  see 
you.    I  thought  you  ought  to  go  home  when  you  recover." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled. 

"Maybe  I'm  wrong,"  he  said,  "but  I  think  so,  still." 

After  a  silence:  "You  are  wrong.  .  .  .  But  I  know  you 
mean  it  kindly." 

"Hang  it  all,  of  course  I  do.    You're  an  unusual  girl " 


106  E  R I  S 

Betsy's  words,  she  remembered — "and  you  interest  me ;  and  I 
like  you.  .  .  .  And  I  know  something  about  Broadway. 
...  It  worries  me  a  little — the  combination  of  you  and 
.Broadway." 

"I — worry  youf 

"In  a  way.  .  .  .  Your  inexperience.  .  .  .  And  you  don't 
know  men." 

"No,  I  don't  know  men." 

"Well — there  you  are,"  he  said,  impatiently. 

Yes,  there  she  was, — in  the  guest-room  bed  of  one  of 
them. 

She  said,  tranquilly :  "It  is  kind  of  you  to  be  interested  in 
me.  I  feel  it  deeply,  Mr.  Annan.  It  seems  wonderful  to  me, 
that  a  man  so — a  man  like  yourself — should  have — have 
time  to  care  what  happens  to  a  perfectly  strange  nobody. 
.  .  .  But  I  can't  go  home.  .  .  .  Not  yet.  ...  I  shouldn't 
care  to  live  if  I  can't  have  an  opportunity  to  learn.  .  .  .  So — 
so  that's  thit'' 

He,  finally,  laughed.    "Is  it,  Eris?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him,  "I'm  afraid  it  is." 

"And  that's  that,"  he  concluded. 

"Yes,  really  it  is." 

"All  right."  He  got  up,  stood  fumbling  with  a  cigarette. 
"All  right,  Eris.  If  'that's'  the  verdict,  I  guess  I  was  wrong. 
I  guess  you  know  your  business." 

"No.    But  I  hope  to." 

"You  fascinatingly  literal  kid ! "  He  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, went  over  and  shook  hands  with  her. 

"Somebody  else  will  have  to  milk  the  cows  and  feed  the 
chickens.  That's  plain  as  the  permanent  curls  on  your 
bobbed  head,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  laughing,  " — and  you're  so  funny!" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  great  wit,"  he  admitted.  "Well,  little  pilgrim, 
you  require  sleep  if  I  don't.  ...  I  think  I'll  go  in  and  start 
a  story.  ...  Or  read.  .  .  .  Your  story  is  just  beginning, 
isn't  it?" 


E  R  I  S  107 

She  ventured  a  timid  jest:  "You  finished  my  story  for 
me,  didn't  you?" 

"I  did.  When  it's  published,  and  you  read  it,  you'll 
never  stop  guying  me,  I  suppose." 

She  still  ventured  pleasantries :  "So  you  didn't  tell  how  I 
left  the  Park  and  walked  straight  into  an  engagement,  did 
you?" 

"My  dear,  I  bumped  you  off  to  sneak-music.  It  goes,  you 
know,  with  my  clients.  They  wouldn't  stand  for  what  Miss 
Blythe  did.    Neither  would  the  Planet.    I'd  get  the  hook." 

They  both  were  laughing  when  he  said  good-night. 

He  went  into  his  room  but  did  not  light  the  lamp.  For  a 
long  while  he  sat  by  the  open  window  looking  out  into  the 
darkness  of  Governor's  Place. 

It  probably  was  nothing  he  saw  out  there  that  brought  to 
his  lips  a  slight,  recurrent  smile. 

The  bad  habit  of  working  late  at  night  was  growing  on 
this  young  man.  It  is  a  picturesque  habit,  and  one  of  the 
most  imbecile,  because  sound  work  is  done  only  with  a  nor- 
mal mind. 

He  made  himself  some  coffee.  A  rush  of  genius  to  the 
head  followed  stimulation.  He  had  a  grand  time,  revelling 
with  pen  and  pad  and  littering  the  floor  with  inked  sheets 
unnumbered  and  still  wet.  His  was  a  messy  genius.  His 
plot-logic  held  by  the  grace  of  God  and  a  hair-line.  Even 
the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa  can  be  plumbed;  and  the  lead 
dangled  inside  Achilles'  tendon  when  one  held  the  string 
to  the  medulla  of  Annan's  stories. 

He  rose  at  his  usual  early  hour,  rather  pallid,  and  parched 
by  too  many  pipes. 

When  he  left  the  house  for  down  town,  Mrs.  Sniffen  re- 
ported Eris  still  sound  asleep.  So  Annan  went  away  to 
deposit  seven  thousand  words  with  Coltfoot. 

"Off  the  bat  just  like  that,"  he  said,  tossing  the  untidy 
btmdle  onto  Coltfoot's  desk. 


108  E  R  I  S 

"You  mean  that  you  did  this  story  last  night  after  we 
left?"  demanded  Coltfoot. 

"That's  what  I  do,  Mike, — sometimes.  And  sometimes 
I'm  two  or  three  weeks  on  this  sort  of  thing.  I  think  I'll 
go  back  and  do  another.    I  feel  like  it." 

"Probably,"  remarked  the  other,  "this  is  punk." 

"Probably  not,"  said  Annan  serenely.  "Are  you  lunch- 
ing?" 

"Probably  not  if  I  read  this  bunk  first.  Is  it  really  up  to 
your  worst  level?" 

"Your  readers  will  wail  like  a  bunch  of  banshees  over  it. 
It's  dingy,  squalid,  photographic.  What  more  does  the 
Great  American  Ass  require?" 

"That's  his  fodder,"  admitted  Coltfoot.  "Now  g'wan 
outa  here,  you  licensed  push-cart  bandit!  ...  By  the  way, 
how's  the  park-bencher  this  morning?" 

"Asleep  when  I  left  the  house."  He  seated  himself 
sideways  on  Coltfoot's  desk: 

"Mike,  do  you  know  she's  exceedingly  pretty?" 

"How  should  I  know?  .  .  .  But  trust  you  to  pick  that 
kind " 

"I  forgot  that  you've  never  seen  her.  Well,  last  night 
after  you  left  I  stopped  to  look  in  on  her,  and,  honestly,  her 
beauty  startled  me.  She's  beautiful  thick  chestnut  hair  and 
fine  grey  eyes,  and  the  loveliest  mouth — its  expression  is 
charming! — and  really,  Mike,  her  arms  and  hands  are  deli- 
cate enough  for  a  Psyche.  Maybe  she  milked  and  fed 
ducks,  but  I  can't  see  any  of  the  hick  about  her " 

He  smiled,  made  one  of  his  characteristic,  graceful  ges- 
tures :  "It's  funny,  but  there  she  is.  And  yet,  I'd  not  ven- 
ture to  use  her  in  a  story  *as  is.*  Because  my  wise  guys 
wouldn't  believe  in  her.  I'd  be  damned  as  a  romanticist. 
And  you'd  chuck  me  out  of  the  Sunday  Edition." 

Coltfoot  sat  gazing  up  at  him  for  a  few  moments, 
then  put  on  his  reading-spectacles  and  pawed  at  a  wad  of 
proof. 


E  R I  S  109 

"I'm  going  to  chuck  you  out  of  this  office  anyway,"  he 
grunted. 

Exactly  why  Annan  chose  to  lunch  at  home  did  not  occur 
to  him  until,  arriving  there,  Mrs.  Sniffen  handed  him  a  note 
and  announced  the  departure  of  Eris  Odell. 

"What!"  he  said  irritably,  "has  she  gone?" 

"About  eleven,  Mr.  Barry.  And  would  you  believe  that 
child  would  ask  me  to  take  five  dollars  for  making  her  bed  ? 
And  she  with  scarce  a  penny.  What's  one  'undred  and 
twenty  dollars  in  New  York  ?    I  could  ha'  birched  her " 

"Give  me  the  note,"  he  interrupted,  disappointed.  Be- 
cause that  was  why  he  had  come  home  to  lunch, — to  see  this 
youngster  who  had  so  ungratefully  and  rudely  departed. 

He  went  upstairs  to  his  room,  seated  himself,  slit  the 
envelope  with  a  paper  cutter,  and  leisurely  but  sulkily  un- 
folded the  sheet  of  note  paper  within. 

A  hundred-dollar  bank  note  fell  to  the  floor. 

"Dear  Friend,"  he  read, — a  rural  form  of  address  that 
always  annoyed  Annan, — "please  do  not  be  offended  if  I 
leave  without  awaiting  your  return.  Because  I  feel  keenly 
that  I  ought  not  to  impose  upon  your  great  kindness  any 
longer. 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  express  my  gratitude.  Your  goodness 
has  stirred  my  deepest  sensibilities  and  has  imprinted  upon 
my  innermost  mind  a  sense  of  obligation  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

"I  shall  always  marvel  that  so  well  known  and  successful 
a  man  could  find  time  to  trouble  himself  with  the  personal 
embarrassment  of  an  insignificant  stranger. 

"What  you  have  done  for  me  is  so  wonderful  that  I  can/ 
only  feel  it  but  cannot  formulate  my  feeling  in  words. 

"And  thank  you  for  the  hundred  dollars.  But  please, 
please  understand  that  I  could  not  keep  it. 

"Confident  in  the  promise  of  Miss  Blythe,  I  shall  venture 


110  E  R I  S 

to  take  the  room  that  sometimes  I  have  taken  for  a  single 
night.    It  is  at  696  Jane  Street. 

"So  good-bye — unless  you  ever  would  care  to  see  me 
again — and  thank  you  with  a  heart  very  full,  dear  Mr. 
Annan. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Eris." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  NNAN  had  every  intention  of  going  to  Jane  Street. 
-^^  But  Barry  Annan  was  that  kind  of  busy  man  who  takes 
the  most  convenient  diversion  in  the  interims  of  work. 

He  wrote  a  note  to  Eris,  promising  to  stop  in  very  soon ; 
but  week-ends  interfered.  Then,  in  August,  a  house  party 
at  Southampton,  another  in  Saratoga  for  the  races,  and  the 
remaining  two  weeks  trout  fishing  in  the  Maine  forests,  con- 
victed him  as  the  sort  of  social  liar  everybody  understands. 

But  Eris  was  not  anybody  yet.  She  did  not  understand. 
There  was  not  a  single  evening  she  had  not  waited  for  him, 
not  daring  to  go  out  lest  she  miss  him. 

Only  when  the  Betsy  Blythe  Company  departed  on  loca- 
tion did  Eris  abandon  hope  and  pack  her  little  satchel  for  the 
Harlem  &  Westchester  train. 

Annan,  at  Portage  Camps,  had  a  letter  from  Betsy  Blythe 
on  location,  dated  from  Cross  River  in  Westchester. 

"Our  first  picture  is  called  'The  Real  Thing,'  "  she  wrote, 
"and  we're  shooting  all  our  exteriors  while  the  foliage  lasts. 
This  is  a  wonderful  spot  for  that — everything  within  a  mile 
— and  perfect  weather. 

"Frank  Donnell  is  my  director — a  dear!  And  Stoll  is  our 
camera-man — none  better  in  the  profession.  Our  people  are 
pretty  good, — one  or  two  miscast,  I  fear, — and  we  can  get 
all  the  extras  we  can  use,  right  here, — it's  hick-stuff,  my  dear, 
and  there's  poods  of  it  at  hand.  ^ 

"My  people  bought  Quilling's  novel  for  $50,000.  You 
should  have  heard  Levant  scream !    But  Dick  Quilling  can't 

111 


112  ERIS 

be  had  for  nothing,  and  Crystal  Gray  herself  did  the  con- 
tinuity. 

"I'm  afraid  to  tell  you  how  our  footage  stands — and  no 
interiors  so  far.  But  our  sets  will  be  few  and  will  cost 
nothing. 

"Why  should  Tobacco  shriek?  We  have  our  release  al- 
ready through  the  Five  Star,  and  we  get  back  our  cost  of 
production.     Isn't  that  sound  business? 

"Besides,  five  weeks  should  be  sufficient  for  studio  shoot- 
ing. We  get  the  Willow  Tree  Studios.  Frank  Donnell  will 
do  the  cutting  in  the  Lansing  Laboratories,  and  use  their 
projection  rooms. 

"I've  a  peach  of  a  part  if  I'm  up  to  it.  Nobody  else  near 
me.  Wally  Crawford  plays  opposite — a  very  trying  kid — 
the  good-looking,  smarty,  rather  common  sort — all  plastered 
hair  and  eyelashes — ^you  know? 

"The  other  principals  will  do. 

"I'm  very  happy,  Barry.  I  could  even  believe  you  sincere 
if  you  were  here — I  mean  believe  it  for  an  hour  or  two  of 
Westchester  moonlight. 

"I  write  Dad  and  Mother  every  night.  They've  been  out 
here  in  the  car  several  times.  Rosalind  motored  out  Sunday. 
We  had  an  awfully  good  time, 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  up  before  we  strike  our  tents 
and  beat  it  for  the  Bronx? 

"Yours  contentedly, 

"Betsy  B. 

"P.  S. — I  forgot  to  say  that  your  little  protegee,  Kris,  does 
extremely  well  whatever  is  required  of  her.  She  plays  one 
of  those  self-conscious  rustics,  half  educated,  vain,  credu- 
lous, and  with  a  capacity  for  a  world  of  mischief.  I'm  a  pig, 
I  suppose,  but  I'm  glad  Crystal  Gray  cut  the  part  to  slivers. 
Eris  has  no  experience  and  no  training,  of  course,  but  she 
screens  well,  is  intelligent,  and  does  exactly  what  Frank 
Donnell  tells  her  to  do. 

"She  comes,  diffidently,  to  sit  in  my  hammock  with  me 


E  R  I  S  lis 

after  dinner,  and  curls  up  like  a  tired  kitten.  But,  like  a 
kitten,  she  is  receptive,  responsive,  ready  to  play  or  be  talked 
to — an  unspoiled,  generous  nature  already  actively  forming 
a  character  the  daily  development  of  which  is  very  interest- 
ing to  watch. 

"I  told  her  I  was  writing  to  you.     She  asks,  very  shyly, 
to  be  'faithfully  remembered.' 

"I,  also,  but  not  faithfully. 

"Betsy.'* 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  SHORT  story  every  Sunday  would  have  grilled  the 
brains  out  of  anybody,  even  a  born  story  teller. 

Perhaps  quality  might  have  suffered;  perhaps  the  thread 
of  invention  would  have  snapped  had  not  Annan's  contract 
with  the  Planet  ended  with  September. 

He  had  done  twenty  stories  for  Colt  foot  in  six  months. 
Those  stories  made  Annan.  It  had  finally  come  to — "Have 
you  read  Barry  Annan  in  this  week's  number?"  That,  and 
a  growing  hostility  always  certain  to  be  aroused  by  recogni- 
tion, were  making  of  the  young  man  a  personage. 

From  the  very  beginning,  scarce  knowing  why,  he  had 
avoided  the  shallow  wallow  of  American  "letters,"  where  the 
whole  herd  roots  and  snouts — literati,  critics,  public, — gruf- 
fling  and  snuffling  for  the  legendary  truffle  disinterred  and 
gobbled  up  so  long — so  long  ago. 

Already  the  younger  aspirants  hailed  him.  Already  the 
dreary  brethren  of  the  obvious  stared  disapproval. 

The  dull  read  him  as  they  read  everything.  It  takes  all 
kinds  of  pasture  to  keep  a  cow  in  cud.  She  chews  but  never 
criticises. 

Realists  peered  at  him  evilly  and  askance.  His  description 
of  swill  didn't  smell  like  the  best  swill.  There  were  mutter- 
ings  of  "heretic." 

The  "small-town"  school  found  fault  with  his  microscope. 
Waste  nothing — their  motto — had  resulted  in  a  demand  for 
their  rag-carpets.  But  here  was  a  man  who  saved  only  a 
handful  of  threads  and  twisted  them  into  a  phrase  which 
seemed  to  do  the  duty  of  entire  chapters.  No,  the  small-town 
school  took  a  sniff  at  Annan  and  trotted  on  down  the  alley. 

As  for  the  Romanticists,  squirming  and  writhing  and 

114 


E  R I  S  115 

weaving  amid  their  mess  of  properties  and  scenery,  what  did 
they  want  of  the  substance  when  the  shadow  cost  nothing? 

No,  Annan  didn't  fit  anywhere.  He  was  just  a  good  story- 
teller. 

Outside  that,  his  qualifications  for  writing  fiction  were 
superfluous,  from  an  American  audience's  point  of  view,  for, 
to  please  that  audience,  he  didn't  have  to  write  good  Eng- 
lish, he  didn't  have  to  be  intellectual,  cultured,  witty,  or  a 
gentleman.  But  these  unnecessary  addenda  did  not  posi- 
tively count  against  him. 

He  talked  over  the  situation  with  Colt  foot,  who  was  loath 
to  lose  him  and  muttered  of  moneys. 

"No,  Mike,"  concluded  Annan,  "I've  had  my  romp  in  your 
kindly  columns.  You  let  me  train  there.  I  feel  fit  for  the 
fight,  now.    I'm  on  tip- toe,  all  pepped  up." 

"How  much  do  you  want  then  ?"  demanded  Coltfoot,  un- 
convinced. 

"Nothing.    I've  about  a  million  things  I  want  to  try '* 

"Bosco,"  nodded  the  other  wearily ; — "I  know.  But  you'll 
end  in  a  Coney  Island  show,  matched  against  all  comers  to 
eat  twenty-five  feet  of  sausages  in  twenty-five  minutes.  .  .  . 
Do  a  serial  for  us.  We've  never  tried  it  but  I  believe  the 
newspaper  is  destined  to  put  the  magazine  out  of  business. 
I'll  take  a  chance,  anyway.    Will  you?" 

"Maybe.  I'm  going  to  do  a  story — a  kind  of  novel — a 
thing — something " 

"I'll  take  it  without  sample  or  further  identification.  It 
may  cost  me  my  job.    Are  we  on  ?" 

"No,  you  crazy  Irishman.  Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you.  I 
may  change  my  mind  and  try  a  play,  or  a  continuity  direct, — 
hang  it  all,  I  might  even  burst  into  verse.  Do  you  want  some 
poems  ?"  he  threatened. 

"No,"  replied  CoUfoot  calmly,  "but  I'll  take  them." 

"I'll  do  one  farewell  article  for  you.  I'll  do  it  to-night. 
But  that  ends  it." 


116  E  R I  S 

"How  about  the  poems  ?" 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Annan  laughing.  "It's  just  the 
yoke,  Mike.  It  hasn't  galled,  but  let  me  drop  it  for  a  while. 
.  .  .  That  stuff  I  did  for  you — well,  it's  out  of  my  system. 
I  don't  care,  now,  whether  it's  good  or  bad ;  I  shan't  do  any 
more  anyway " 

"Your  public  asks  for  it." 

"I'm  through " 

"They  want  thatf 

"Well,  I  won't  do  any  more.  I  don't  want  to.  I  can't.  I 
don't  think  that  way  any  longer.    Damn  it,  I've  gone  on " 

"They  haven't!" 

"Let  'em  stay  put,  then,"  growled  Annan, 

"You  mean  you  are  going  to  abandon  your  public?" 

"I  move.    If  they  don't  want  to  follow " 

"No  writer  can  afford  to  abandon  his  public,"  said  Colt- 
foot,  seriously. 

Annan,  also  serious,  said  slowly :  "The  Masters  we  scrib- 
blers try  to  follow  went  that  way.  They  went  on.  Few  fol- 
lowed them  all  the  way.  .  .  .  Poe  wrote  only  one  'Tales  of 
the  Grotesque';  Kipling  wrote  only  one  'Plain  Tales  from 
the  Hills';  Scott  one  'Ivanhoe,'  Hawthorne  one  'Scarlet 
Letter' ;  Cooper,  Dickens,  Thackeray  only  the  one  each. 
.  .  .  And  there  was  only  one  'Hamlet.'  .  .  .  And  but  one 
'Inferno.'  .  .  .  And  one  'Song  of  Songs.'  .  .  .  And  one 
Tliad.'  " 

He  shrugged :  "So  maybe,  in  my  own  cheap  little  job  I 
have  hit  my  high-spot  with  those  stories  of  yours.  .  .  . 
Maybe.  .  .  .  But  I'm  going  on,  I'm  going  to  write  what  I 
please  if  it  costs  me  my  last  reader." 

Coltfoot  made  his  last  effort:  "Dumas  wrote  'Twenty 
Years  After'?" 

"There  was  only  one  'Three  Musketeers.'  " 

"Sure.  .  .  .  The  greatest  romance  ever  written.  .  .  . 
Sure.  ...  All  right,  Barry.  .  .  ." 

That  evening  Annan  made  himself  some  black  coffee  and 


E  R I  S  117 

wrote  his  farewell  article  for  Coltfoot.  It  took  him  only  half 
an  hour  and  it  left  him  too  much  keyed  up  for  sleep.  He 
called  his  article :  "The  Great  American  Ass." 

"September  flowers  gone  to  seed,"  it  began,  deceptively; 
''withering  leaves  and  dry  dirt — the  Park  and  Fifth  Avenue 
at  their  shabbiest.  Streets  torn  up,  piles  of  sand,  escaping 
steam,  puddles  of  mortar,  red  flag  and  red  lantern  crowning 
the  debris,  and  the  whole  mess  stinking  of  illuminating  gas : 
heat,  dirt,  noise — unnecessary,  incessant,  hellish  noise — 
seven  million  sweating  people  milling  like  maggots  in  the 
midst — your  New  York,  fellow  citizens,  on  an  unwashed 
platter ! 

"Of  the  metropolis  itself  there  is  scarcely  any  beauty — ^a 
church  here,  an  office-building  there,  one  or  two  statues,  a 
few  dwellings : 

"In  the  metropolis  there  is  more  beauty  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  world.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  faces  and  figures 
of  its  women  and  children. 

"For  the  beauty  of  woman  is  as  usual  in  New  York  as  it 
is  rare  in  the  capitals  of  Europe.  Without  the  charm,  sym- 
metry, vivacity  of  the  faces  of  her  women,  New  York  would 
be,  indeed,  the  ugliest,  dingiest,  and  stupidest  metropolis  in 
the  world. 

"Flower-like  her  pretty  women  bloom  all  over  the  arid, 
treeless  agglomeration  of  mortar  and  metal,  serene  amid  the 
asinine  clamour;  smiling,  piquant,  nourished  by  suffocating 
heat,  flourishing  in  arctic  cold,  hardy,  healthy,  wonderful  in 
the  vast  abiding  place  of  the  Great  American  Ass, — New 
York. 

"Here  is  his  stronghold  and  he  runs  it  to  suit  himself. 
Any  woman  manages  her  own  flat  far  better. 

"For  your  New  Yorker  comes  of  an  untidy  race,  knowing 
neither  civic  nor  national  pride  in  the  proper  sense. 

"His  forefathers  cleared  forests  and  lived  among  charred 
stumps.    He  is  aware  of  no  inborn  necessity  for  beauty. 

"New  York  is  the  wastrel  among  states.    Her  sons  pollute 


118  ERIS 

streams;  her  country  roads  are  vistas  of  bill-boards;  even 
the  'eternal'  hills  that  line  the  Hudson  crumble  daily  into 
cement.  Here  the  Great  American  Ass  found  a  Paradise 
and  created  a  Dump.  He  ravages,  stamps  out,  obliterates  the 
lovely  face  of  nature, — digs,  burns,  crushes,  tramples.  Hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  ghastly,  charred  forests  mark  the  trail  of 
the  Great  American  Ass  among  his  mountains.  Filthy  sea- 
waves  dash  his  refuse  upon  his  shores. 

"Loud,  wanton,  strident,  and  painted  his  metropolis 
sprawls,  unbuttoned,  on  the  island  leering  at  ugliness  and 
devastation.  And,  in  her  dirty  ears,  the  ceaseless  and  com- 
placent braying  of  the  Great  American  Ass.  Her  lover,  Bot- 
tom, the  eternal  New  Yorker. 

"Any  woman's  kitchen  is  cleaner  and  her  household  run 
with  greater  economy. 

"Poor  bread — when  France  can  teach  him  what  bread 
really  is — poorly  prepared  food,  making  candy  eaters  of  an 
entire  people — an  alimentary  viciousness  unknown  where 
food  is  properly  cooked  and  properly  eaten. 

"A  poor  people,  you  New  Yorkers,  spite  of  your  money — 
poorly  educated,  bodily  and  mentally ;  poor  in  physique ;  poor 
sportsmen  who  tolerate  professionalism  as  your  popular 
sport ;  too  poor  in  spirit  to  submit  to  universal  service  for  the 
common  weal. 

"So  poor  that  your  laws  are  made  for  you  by  the  most 
recently  settled  and  most  ignorant  section  of  the  nation. 

"The  'Centre  of  Population,'  with  its  incubus  of  half  edu- 
cated women,  prescribes  your  bodily  and  your  moral  menu. 
And  you  become  a  metropolis  of  moonshiners. 

"What  are  you,  Manhattan  ?  Ruins  already,  alas,  to  build 
upon — the  Yankee  Ninevah  trodden  by  an  ass  less  wild. 

"And  yet  the  endless  caravans  continue.  Still,  to  New 
York  come  all  things,  all  people.  And,  alas,  Youth  comes 
too,  and  all  afire  to  see  and  learn  and  achieve.  High  ideals, 
high  hopes,  vigour,  courage,  face  to  face  with  the  Great 
American  Ass  enthroned  amid  the  debris. 


ERIS  119 

"Youth  floundering  in  the  dump-heap  bares  a  dean  sword 
to  hew  its  way  to  beauty.  And  strikes  a  shower  of  ashes. 
There  is  no  sympathy ;  no  audience  for  beauty  in  New  York. 

"Dull  eyes  look  on,  dull  minds  weary.  There  is  official 
inquiry  as  to  the  purpose  of  'these  here  art  artists.'  The 
waiter,  taxi-driver,  janitor,  gambler  of  yesterday  are  the 
arbiters  of  Art  on  Broadway  to-day. 

"It  is  not  a  sword  that  Youth  needs  in  New  York;  it  is 
a  gas-mask.  And,  somewhere.  Destiny  is  already  mixing 
mortar  and  Fate  is  baking  bricks  for  that  coming  temple  that 
shall  stand  upon  the  futile  ruins  where,  some  day,  shall  be 
disinterred  the  fossil  bones  of  the  Great  American  Ass." 

Annan  sent  it  to  Colt  foot  with  a  note: 

"This  is  a  crazy  article.    You  don't  have  to  use  it." 

Coltfoot  used  it.  A  few  people  laughed,  a  few  protested, 
the  Middle  West  was  angry,  and  the  owners  of  the  Planet 
told  Coltfoot  to  be  more  careful. 

But  the  majority  of  New  Yorkers  liked  the  article,  and 
grinned,  having  been  overfed  on  "our  fair  city"  stuff. 

Besides,  the  tendency  of  the  times  was  toward  the  unpleas- 
ant. 

Stilton  and  caviar  are  acquired  tastes. 

That  night  Annan  made  himself  some  black  coffee  and 
began  his  first  novel,  "The  Cloud." 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  tore  up  what  he  had 
written  and  smoked  another  pipe. 

"Oh,  the  rotten  start !"  he  yawned,  conscious  that  inwardly 
he  was  all  a-tremble  with  creative  power, — like  a  boiler  that 
taxes  its  safety  valve. 

The  young  vigour  in  him  laughed  its  menace.  All  the 
insolent  certainty  of  youth  was  in  his  gesture  as  he  flung  the 
torn  manuscript  into  the  fireplace. 

That  night  he  embarked  upon  the  sea  of  dreams.    He  sel- 


1«0  ERIS 

dom  dreamed.  But  this  night  tall  clouds  loomed  in  his  sleep 
and  an  ocean  rolled  away.  His  ship  plunged  on,  always  on, 
he  at  the  helm. 

Far  upon  the  storm-wastes  pitched  a  tiny  craft  under 
naked  poles,  hurled  toward  destruction.  As  he  drove  past 
her  under  thundering  sail  he  saw — for  the  first  time  in  any 
dream — the  ghost  of  Eris  lashed  to  the  little  helm,  her  death- 
white  face  fixed,  her  gaze  intent  upon  the  last  fading  star. 

He  awoke  calling  to  her,  the  strain  of  nightmare  an  agony 
in  his  throat,  and  shaking  all  over.  But  now,  awake,  he 
couldn't  understand  what  had  so  terrified  him  in  his  dream, 
why  he  quivered  so. 

"I  suppose  I  thought  she  couldn't  ride  out  the  storm  in 
that  cockle-shell,"  he  muttered,  gazing  at  the  grey  warning 
of  dawn  outside  his  windows. 

The  first  sparrow  chirped.  Annan  pulled  the  quilt  over 
his  ears,  disgusted. 

"I  ought  to  look  up  that  kid,"  he  thought. 

It  was  his  last  conscious  effort  until  he  awoke  for  another 
day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ANNAN,  leaving  the  Province  Club — one  of  the  remain- 
ing threads  attaching  him  to  the  conventional  world — 
espied  Coltfoot. 

They  had  not  met  in  weeks,  and  they  shook  hands  affec- 
tionately. 

"What  are  you  doing  these  days,  Mike?"  inquired  Annan. 

"Hunting  geniuses  as  a  dog  hunts  fleas.  What's  your 
latest  effort,  Barry?" 

"No  effort.  I  am  awaiting  with  composure  the  birth  of 
my  great  novel." 

"Any  good?"  demanded  the  other  with  professional  curi- 
osity. 

"It's  good  enough  to  sell  in  Heaven,"  replied  Annan  mod- 
estly. 

"Not  so  good  then,"  grunted  Coltfoot.  "And  if  that's  all 
you're  doing  this  afternoon,  why  not  saunter  along  with 
me?" 

"Gladly,  but  whither?" 

"To  57th  Street.  Frank  Donnell  is  running  Betsy  Blythe's 
stuff  this  afternoon.    Don't  you  want  to  see  it?" 

"Why,  yes — of  course." 

Annan  signalled  a  club  taxi  in  waiting;  they  rolled  away 
together,  Coltfoot  directing  the  driver  to  go  to  "The  Look- 
ing Glass" — quite  the  most  charming  little  motion  picture 
house  yet  erected  on  Manhattan  Island. 

"Albert  Wesly  Smull  built  it,"  remarked  Coltfoot.  "It's 
a  gem." 

"Isn't  Smull  one  of  that  bunch  of  sports  behind  Betsy 
Blythe?" 

121 


182  E  R I  S 

"One  of  *em.  I  hear  'The  Looking  Glass'  is  the  first  of 
a  string  of  picture  houses  that  Smull  means  to  build  and 
operate." 

"I  supposed  that  Wall  Street  men  had  learned  to  fight 
shy  of  pictures,"  remarked  Annan. 

*'You  can't  scare  them  away.  It's  a  bigger  gamble  than 
their  own.    That's  why." 

They  stopped  at  the  pretty  bit  of  colonial  architecture  on 
Fifty-Seventh  Street,  and  entered  a  private  corridor  where 
an  elevator  whisked  them  to  the  third  floor. 

There  were  a  number  of  people  in  Frank  Donnell's  office. 

Donnell,  prematurely  grey,  smooth  shaven  and  with  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman,  greeted  Coltfoot  who,  in  turn,  made 
him  known  to  Annan. 

Other  men  spoke  to  them,  Dick  Quilling — whose  novel  had 
been  filmed  for  Miss  Blythe — a  dapper,  restless  young  man, 
eternally  caressing  a  small  and  pointed  moustache  with  nico- 
tine-stained fingers;  Stoll,  celebrated  camera  man,  silent, 
dreamy  and  foreign;  David  Zanger,  art-director,  a  stumpy, 
fat  man  with  no  eye  lashes,  a  rotmd,  pock-marked  face, 
frayed  cuffs  and  dirty  fingers. 

Annan,  looking  about,  discovered  Betsy  Blythe,  returned 
a  smile  for  her  swift  frown,  and  went  over  to  make  his 
peace  for  his  long  neglect  of  her. 

"Where's  that  blooming  continuity  you  were  to  do  for 
me  ?"  she  demanded  irritably. 

"I'm  still  evolving  it,  most  beautiful  of  women " 

"Gentle  liar,  you've  never  given  it  another  thought.  I 
suppose  you  can't  help  gazing  at  people  as  though  you  mean 
what  you  say,  can  you,  Barry?"  And,  to  the  man  seated 
beside  her — "You  remember  Mr.  Annan,  Albert?" 

Albert  Wesly  Smull  got  up — an  elaborately-groomed  man 
of  ruddy,  uncertain  age.  His  expression,  always  verging  on 
a  smile,  might  have  been  agreeable  if  less  persistent.  He 
had  a  disturbing  habit  of  smiling  rather  fixedly  at  people 
out  of  small,  red-brown  eyes. 


E  R I  S  Its 

He  knew  Annan  by  sight,  it  appeared.  They  shook  hands 
pc^itely. 

"I  used  to  see  you  in  the  Patroon's  Qub,"  said  Mr.  Smull. 
"I  know  your  aunt  very  well,"  he  added  with  his  sanguine 
smile. 

"Probably  better  than  I  do,"  said  Annan.  "I'm  socially 
disinherited,  you  know." 

Smull's  reddish-brown  eyes  clung  to  Annan  like  two  gad- 
flies. 

"Your  aunt  is  a  very  wonderful  old  lady,"  he  said ;  " — a 
great  power  in  New  York  under  the  old  regime — "  His 
eyes  began  to  move,  leaving  Annan  and  turning  toward  the 
window  where  people  were  grouped. 

"The  grand  dame  is  done  for  in  this  town,"  remarked 
Betsy.  "She's  as  important  in  these  days  as  a  stuffed 
Dodo." 

Annan  caught  sight  of  Rosalind  Shore  near  the  window ; 
Betsy  shrugged  her  conge ;  he  went  across  to  Rosalind,  who 
stood  with  other  people  looking  at  stills  which  Frank  Don- 
nell  was  sorting  on  a  table. 

"Hello,  ducky!"  said  Rosalind,  extending  one  fair  hand 
and  drawing  Annan  to  her  side.  "We're  looking  at  Mr. 
Stoll's  delightful  stills.  Isn't  this  one  interesting?" — holding 
up  the  finished  photograph.  "How  wonderfully  Betsy 
screens!  Look,  Nan," — turning  to  one  of  the  girls  behind 
her ;  and  then,  remembering,  she  introduced  Annan  to  Nancy 
Cassell,  a  small,  blond  girl,  as  nervously  organised  as  a  but- 
terfly. 

"Your  stories  in  the  Planet  have  cost  me  many  a  tear,  Mr. 
Annan,"  said  Miss  Cassell.  "Why  do  you  always  extermi- 
nate your  heroes  and  heroines?" 

"Somebody's  got  to  thin  'em  out,"  he  explained,  "or  they'd 
become  a  pest  like  the  sparrow  and  the  potato  beetle " 

"If  you  don't  save  a  pair  for  breeding  they'll  become  ex- 
tinct," retorted  Nancy.  "I'm  going  to  join  a  hero-heroine 
protective  association  with  a  closed  season  for  mating.  .  .  . 


124  E  R I  S 

Please  join."  Her  eyes  flickered  provocation,  curiosity,  de- 
fiance.   As  usual  he  ignored  the  challenge. 

Donnell,  with  his  gentle  but  wearied  smile,  handed  her  a 
new  photograph,  and  offered  a  second  to  Rosalind.  Behind 
them,  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  was  another  girl,  and 
Donnell  turned  with  kindly  courtesy  and  handed  her  a  still. 
As  he  moved  aside  to  give  her  room  at  the  table,  Annan,  also, 
politely  made  a  place  for  her,  noticing  her  supple  grace  as 
she  moved  forward  in  silhouette,  the  sun,  behind  her,  out- 
lining a  curved  cheek  and  slender  neck. 

And  suddenly  he  knew  her. 

"Eris!"  he  exclaimed,  delighted. 

"I  was  afraid  you  didn't  remember  me,  Mr.  Annan " 

A  slim  hand,  scarce  ventured,  lay  in  his, — lay  very  still 
and  cool  and  unresponsive. 

"Eris, — Erisf  he  repeated  with  a  boyish  warmth  so  un- 
feigned that  the  bright  colour  slowly  came  into  her  face  and 
her  hand  reacted  nervously  to  his. 

Rosalind  gave  them  a  lazy  glance  over  her  shoulder: 
**Ding-dong !  Take  your  comers,"  she  said,  offering  them  a 
still  in  which  Eris  figured.  And,  to  Eris :  "I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing, my  dear;  if  I  screened  like  you  I'd  quit  squalling  top 
notes.  .  .  .  Look  at  her  in  this  one,  Barry!  Isn't  she  too 
sweet?  Isn't  Eris  wonderful,  Frank?" — to  Mr.  Donnell, 
who  smiled  in  his  amiable,  tired  way  and  sorted  out  more 
photographs. 

"Here,  my  dear,"  said  Rosalind,  offering  another  still  to 
Eris,  "I  can  stand  a  prettier  girl  than  I  am  for  just  so 
long.  But  you  and  Barry  may  admire  indefinitely  if  you 
like." 

The  lovely  colour  of  embarrassment  came  into  the  girl's 
face  as  she  took  the  photograph  thrust  upon  her : 

"Mr.  Stoll  gets  the  best  out  of  one,"  she  protested.  "The 
rest  is  all  in  the  make-up,  Rosalind " 

"The  rest  is  all  in  you,"  retorted  Rosalind.  "You're  scar- 
ing us  all  stiff  with  your  beauty.    God  help  us  to  bear  it." 


E  R I  S  125 

Eris,  holding  her  own  picture,  let  her  flushed  glance  stray 
toward  Annan  as  he  bent  beside  her. 

"You're  coming  into  your  own,  Eris,"  he  said  gaily.  "I 
can  see  what  you  have  done  for  yourself  already." 

"You  can  see  what  you  have  done  for  me,"  she  replied 
under  her  breath. 

"What?" 

"You  gave  me  my  chance." 

"Nonsense.  Betsy  did  that.  You  are  doing  the  rest  for 
yourself.  You're  making  good.  That's  evident.  You're 
happy,  too.  .  .  .  Are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  little  pilgrim,"  he  said  smilingly,  "I  guess  you 
really  knew  your  business  that  night  under  the  stars  in  the 
Park.    And  the  credit  is  all  yours " 

"It's  yours!"  she  interrupted  with  a  sudden  passion  in  her 
voice  that  startled  him. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  protested,  but  she  went  on  breath- 
lessly : 

"I  know  what  you've  done  if  you  don't!  You  made  it  all 
possible.  This  is  what  I  craved ;  what  I  needed.  It's  life  to 
me,  Mr.  Annan.    And  you  gave  it." 

"I  had  absolutely  nothing  to " 

"You  did !  You  had  everything  to  do  with  it.  From  the 
time  you  spoke  to  me  in  the  Park  to  the  time  I  left  a  letter 
for  you,  I  lived  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  You  don't 
understand.  Kindness  comes  very  easy  to  you — and — and 
out  of  your  rich  store  you  are — are  generous  with  the  treas- 
ures of  your  mind " 

Something  choked  her ;  she  averted  her  head. 

Surprised,  yet  half  inclined  to  laugh,  he  waited  a  moment. 
Then: 

"You  are  so  delightfully  grateful  for  nothing,"  he  said. 
"I  wish  I  really  had  done  you  a  service." 

She  spoke,  unsteadily,  still  looking  away  from  him : 

"You  don't  understand.  ...  I  can't  trust  myself  now. 


126  ERIS 

...  I  seem  to  be  emotional "     She  shook  her  head  and 

he  saw  the  bobbed  hair  glimmer  red  against  the  sunny- 
window. 

As  they  stood-  there  in  the  curtained  recess,  Frank  Don- 
nell's  voice  rose  above  the  general  conversation : 

"Isn't  that  operator  nearly  ready  in  the  projection  room?" 

Mr.  Zanger  left  the  room  to  inquire. 

Annan  turned  and  accidentally  encountered  Mr.  SmuU's 
fixed  smile. 

Something  in  the  persistent,  sanguine  gaze  of  the  man 
annoyed  him — as  though  Mr,  Smull  had  had  him  under  im- 
pertinent observation  for  some  time  without  his  knowledge. 
He  turned  to  Eris : 

"I  wish  you  really  were  under  obligations  to  me,"  he  said 
lightly,  " — ^you  assume  imaginary  ones  so  adorably.  Shall 
we  go  and  see  how  you  and  Betsy  behave  yourselves  on  the 
screen  ?" 

She  nodded  with  a  swift  intake  of  breath — let  him  draw 
her  arm  through  his.  They  followed  the  little  crowd  now 
moving  toward  the  review  room. 

Seated  together  there  in  the  semi-darkness,  they  watched 
Frank  Donnell  and  Max  Stoll  take  their  places  at  desks  on 
a  raised  platform  behind  them.  A  stenographer,  with  pad 
and  pencil,  came  in  and  seated  herself  at  Donnell's  elbow. 

Out  went  the  lights  except  the  green-shaded  globe  on  Don- 
nell's desk.     The  screen  sprang  into  silvery  relief. 

Donnell  half  turned,  looking  up  over  his  shoulder  toward 
the  concealed  operator  above : 

"All  right,  Jim.  Don't  speed  her  too  much.  About  85. 
And  watch  your  frames." 

"Are  you  ready,  Mr.  Donnell?" 

"Go  ahead." 

No  continuity  was  attempted.  There  were  no  titles,  not 
even  scratch  ones.  Take  followed  take,  faded  or  irised  out. 
Nobody  unacquainted  with  the  story  could  possibly  follow  it. 


ERIS  127 

In  the  darkness  and  silence  there  was  no  sound  except  the 
droning  of  the  machine,  and  Donnell's  calm  voice  occasion- 
ally,— "Frame !  Frame  her,  Jim !"  And  whispered  exclama- 
tions of  approval  at  some  unusually  beautiful  shot  of  StoU's, 
or  at  some  fragment  revealing  Betsy,  radiantly  in  action,  or 
a  butterfly  flash  of  Nancy  Cassell,  or  a  lovely  glimpse  of  Eris. 

The  door  of  the  outer  corridor  kept  opening  and  closing 
to  admit  professionals  arriving  late.  The  darkness  was  be- 
coming thronged  with  people  standing  back  against  the  door 
and  walls. 

Once,  as  Betsy  was  enduring  a  chaste  embrace  from  Wally 
Crawford,  the  film  broke.  Everybody  joined  in  the  gaiety. 
Then  the  little  audience  re-settled  itself  with  scrape  of  chair 
and  rustle  of  skirt  as  Donnell's  shaded  globe  glimmered  out, 
revealing  a  crowded  room. 

Annan  leaned  over  toward  Betsy:  "Good  work,"  he  said 
cordially.    "You're  splendid,    I  hope  the  story  is  as  clever." 

"Thank  you,  Barry.    Frank  thinks  it  ought  to  go  over." 

"It's  beautifully  cast  and  beautifully  kissed,  Betsy!" 

Colt  foot's  voice  from  the  dark :  " — But  the  censor  won't 
let  you  kiss  anybody  but  your  grandmother." 

"Great  stuff,  Betsy,"  added  Rosalind  from  somewhere. 
"God  and  the  Middle  West  will  forgive  that  kiss !" 

"All  set,  Mr.  Donnell,"  came  the  operator's  voice  from 
above. 

"Go  ahead!"  The  light  in  the  shaded  globe  snapped  off; 
the  drone  of  the  machine  filled  the  room.  On  the  screen 
Eris,  in  a  rowboat,  rested  on  her  oars  and  laughed  at  Betsy 
swimming  toward  her,  pursued  by  her  young  man.  His  per- 
manent wave  defied  the  waves. 

Annan  thought:  "Betsy  is  sure  an  artist  or  she'd  never 
stand  for  the  beauty  of  this  child,  Eris.  ...  I  wonder  how 
long  she  can  afford  to  stand  for  it  ?" 

He  bent  close  to  the  girl  in  the  wicker  chair  beside  him: 
"I  couldn't  know  that  you  really  had  it  in  you,  Eris ,  could 
I  ?"  he  whispered. 


128  E  R I  S 

"Do  you  think  I  have?"  she  breathed. 

He  whispered :  "I  know  it.  You  are  a  born  actress,  Eris. 
Your  work  is  charming." 

He  felt  her  breath  lightly  on  his  cheek: 

"It's  all  Frank  Donnell :  /  wouldn't  know  what  to  do.  He 
tells  me  and  shows  me.  I  try  to  comprehend.  I  do  exactly 
avhat  he  tells  me." 

"If  you  weren't  a  born  actress,  even  Frank  Donnell 
couldn't  do  anything  with  you.  It's  you,  Eris.  You're  intel- 
ligent ;  you're  lovely  to  look  at.  I  can't  see  why  your  future 
isn't  in  your  own  hands." 

"I'm  simply  crazy  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  Could  I  ?"  she 
whispered  excitedly. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  much  flattered. 

"I've  wanted  to  for  so  long.  There  are  so  many  things, 
Mr.  Annan — and  you  could  tell  me  why." 

Still  the  same,  wistful  cry,  "Will  you  tell  me  why?" — and 
he  remembered  it,  now,  guiltily,  sorry  for  his  long  neglect. 

"Are  you  still  living  in  Jane  Street,  Eris?" 

"Yes." 

"Shall  I  come  to  see  you?" 

"I  haven't  a  place  to  receive  you." 

"Only  a  bed-room  ?    It  wouldn't  do,  I  suppose." 

"They  wouldn't  let  me.     Mrs.  Plummer  is  strict " 

"Quite  right.  .  .  .  Do  you  mind  dining  with  me  some 
evening?" 

"She  hesitated:  "Where?" 

"Anywhere  you  choose.    The  Ritz?" 

"I  haven't — suitable  clothes " 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  will  you  dine  with  me  at  my  house  ?" 

"You're  so  kind,  Mr.  Annan.    I'd  love  to!    When  may 


Their  whispering  was  making  somebody  in  front  restless. 
Annan's  slight  pressure  on  her  arm  silenced  her.  He  seemed 
to  recollect  that  Mr.  SmuU  sat  directly  in  front  of  Eris;  and, 
again,  very  vaguely  he  was  conscious  of  irritation. 


E  R I  S  129 

There  was  no  use  in  attempting  to  guess  at  the  story 
which  the  machine  above  was  steadily  unreeling.  It  all 
seemed  an  inconsequential  jumble  of  repetitions,  full  of 
aggravating  close-ups — which  better  taste,  some  day,  will 
eliminate  from  the  screen. 

When  he  thought  Mr,  Smull  was  again  quiescent,  Annan 
placed  his  lips  close  to  the  unseen  ear  of  the  girl  beside  him : 

"Come  Thursday  at  seven.  .  .  .  Shall  I  ask  anybody 
else?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Then,  turning  impulsively  to  whisper 
to  him,  in  the  darkness  her  lips  brushed  his. 

Instantly  she  recoiled,  almost  upsetting  her  chair,  and  he 
caught  it  and  steadied  her. 

His  inclination  to  laugh  subsided.  He  could  not  see  her 
face,  but,  in  the  chilled  silence,  he  was  conscious  of  her  dis- 
may and  of  her  rigid  body  beside  him. 

The  shock  of  contact  confused  him,  too.  A  delicate  per- 
fume of  chaste  youth  seemed  to  cling  to  him,  invade  him, 
disturbing  his  natural  ease  and  fluency.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  perhaps,*he  found  nothing  flippant  to  say. 

For  a  long  while  they  remained  mute,  unstirring,  as  the 
endless  reel  droned  on  and  on. 

Finally, — and  very  careful  not  to  touch  her, — he  ventured 
to  whisper: 

"Why  not  make  it  this  evening — ^unless  you  are  otherwise 
engaged  ?" 

He  could  scarcely  hear  her  reply:  "Mr,  Smull  is  giving 
a  dinner  for  Betsy.    I  promised  to  go." 

"Who  is  giving  the  party  ?" 

"Mr.  Smull." 

Again  he  experienced  a  vague  sense  of  irritation. 

"I  thought  you  had  no  dinner  gown,"  he  said  drily. 

"Betsy  offered  me  one  of  hers." 

After  a  silence  he  said  cheerfully :  "I  hope  you'll  have  a 
gay  evening,  Kris.  Call  me  up  when  you  care  to  dine  with 
me. 


180  E  R I  S 

They  watched  the  screen  for  a  while,  not  speaking.  Pres- 
ently, however,  she  whispered:  "I  wish  I  could,  to-night. 
I'd  rather  be  with  you.  I've  waited  so  long.  ,  .  .  And  now — 
I  can't !    And  I'm  heartbroken,  Mr.  Annan." 

He  was  beginning  to  realise  that  the  candour  of  this  girl 
held  an  unsuspected  but  unmistakable  charm  for  him.  He 
said  under  his  breath: 

"I'll  drive  you  home  when  this  is  over.  We  can  plan 
things  then," 

"I  can't,  Mr.  Annan.  Mr.  Smull  has  offered  to  drive  me 
home." 

A  disagreeable  sensation — the  same  indefinite  feeling — 
dismissed  with  a  slight  shrug; — and  suddenly,  subtly,  this 
girl's  position  and  his  own  slipped  into  the  reverse.  Now  it 
was  Jte  who  seemed  to  have  waited  so  long  for  a  chance  to 
talk  to  her, — he  who  was  becoming  impatient. 

"Can  you  give  me  to-morrow  evening,  Eris  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!  There  is  another  party.  I  promised 
Betsy  to  go  with  her." 

*Ts  Mr.  Smull  perpetually  giving  parties  ?"  he  demanded. 

"It's  somebody  else.  I  don't  remember  who.  Mr.  Smull 
is  taking  Betsy  and  me." 

"Have  you  any  time  at  all  to  give  me  this  week?"  he  in- 
quired, the  slightest  hint  of  sarcasm  in  his  pretended  amuse- 
ment. 

"Yes.    Thursday.    May  I  come?" 

"I  am  flattered  speechless." 

He  rather  felt  than  saw  her  turn  toward  him  in  her  chair, 
then  subside  in  silence. 

He  leaned  over,  closer : 

"I  want  you ;  I  didn't  realise  how  much  I  wished  to  talk 
to  you,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  to  come  and  dine  at  the 
house,  Eris,  and  tell  me  everything  you  care  to.  Will 
you?" 

After  a  while,  slowly:  "I  need  to  ...  if  you'll  let  me. 
.  .  .  You  don't  seem  to  understand  how  much  you  mean 


E  R I  S  181 

to  me.  I  never  before  talked  to  a  man  like  you.  I've  been 
wild  to  see  you  again " 

"What!" 

"You  know  it!"  she  said  passionately.  "You  fascinate 
me !  If  you'll  only  talk  to  me,  sometimes,  I  can  learn  some- 
thing!" 

"I'll  talk  to  you  until  you  find  out  what  a  fraud  I  am," 
he  whispered,  still  laughing.  "On  your  own  bobbed  head  be 
it!  I'm  not  proof  against  such  charming  flattery  as  yours. 
Is  it  to  be  Thursday,  then  ?'* 

"Please ! — And  thank  you  so  much " 

"Do  you  promise,  Eris?" 

"I?  Oh,  you  know  I  do.  You  are  laughing  at  me,  Mr. 
Annan " 

"I'm  very  serious.  I  want  you  to  promise  to  come — 
whether  Mr.  Smull  gives  a  party  or  not " 

"You  are  laughing  at  me!" 

"You  listen  to  me !  I'm  never  going  to  let  you  go  again," 
he  said  with  an  ardour  for  which,  later,  he  was  unable  to 
account.  "This  is  the  beginning  of  a  friendship.  And  that's 
a  serious  business,  Eris." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  solemnly,  "it  is.  How  can  I  ever 
tliank  you?  I've  dreamed  of  it  often;  but  I  didn't  dare  hope 
for  it.  .  .  .  Do  you  really  feel  as  I  do,  Mr.  Annan  ?" 

He  had  come  to  a  point  where  he  was  not  quite  sure  of 
what  he  did  feel.  The  increasing  charm  of  her  was  con- 
fusing and  upsetting  him, — he  having  suddenly  to  do  with 
a  kind  of  emotion  to  which  he  was  naturally  averse.  No 
woman  had  ever  touched  him,  sentimentally  ...  so  far. 
.  .  .  What  Eris  was  doing  to  him  he  did  not  comprehend. 

In  a  sort  of  instinctive  bravado  he  leaned  toward  her  and 
laid  his  hand  firmly  over  hers. 

"You're  very  generous,"  he  said.  "I  could  have  gone  to 
see  you  and  I  didn't.  That  wasn't  friendly  of  me.  Your 
loyalty  makes  me  ashamed.  If  you'll  give  me  another  chance 
to  be  of  practical  use " 


182  E  R I  S 

Her  nervous  fingers  pressed  his  in  protest :  "No — ^not  that ! 
I  thought  I  made  it  clear " 


"I  didn't  mean — ^money- 


"I'll  never  accept  it,"  she  whispered  fiercely.  "I  only 
want  youf  Don't  you  know  that  I've  been  starved  all  my  life 
and  that  you  are  the  first  person  who  ever  satisfied  me! 
Can't  you  understand  what  such  a  man  means  to  me?'* 

Her  amazing  intellectual  passion  for  him  swept  him  clean 
off  his  feet : 

"I'll  never  let  you  go  again,  never!"  he  whispered,  not  very 
clear  as  to  what  he  meant. 

She  clung  to  his  hand  in  pledge  of  the  pact,  every  intel- 
lectual aspiration  excited,  thrilled  to  the  spirit  by  sheerest 
delight. 

As  for  him,  emotions  unsuspected  and  inextricably  con- 
fused set  his  youthful  brain  spinning. 

Disbelief,  reluctance,  fastidiousness,  pride,  perhaps,  and 
constant  mental  preoccupation  had  steered  this  young  man 
clear  of  lesser  emotions.  His  few  love  affairs  had  been  bom 
of  a  mischievous  curiosity.  No  woman  had  ever  really 
stirred  him, — not  even  intellectually.  Women  were  agree- 
able to  go  about  with,  amusing  to  analyse ;  characters  to  build 
on,  to  create.  That  was  the  real  role  they  had  played  in  his 
career. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  emotional  impulse 
had  upset  his  complacent  equilibrium,  and  had  incited  him 
to  say  and  do  things,  the  import  of  which  was  not  very 
clear  to  him. 

And  he  hadn't  yet  come  to  his  senses  sufficiently  to  analyse 
the  situation  and  discover  what  it  was  all  about. 

In  the  darkness,  beside  her,  the  charm  of  her  seemed  to 
envelop  him  progressively — steal  stealthily  through  and 
through  him,  stimulating  his  imagination,  exciting  his  curi- 
osity and  a  swiftly  increasing  desire  to  learn  more  about  her. 

The  honesty  of  her  admiration  for  him  flattered  him  as  he 
never  before  had  been  flattered.     Such  naive,  such  ardent 


E  R  I  S  183 

adoration  quite  upset  his  mental  balance,  and  slightly  intoxi- 
cated him. 

Nothing  ever  had  so  appealed,  so  moved  this  sophisticated 
young  man.  And,  add  the  girl's  beauty,  and  nascent  talent 
to  that,  the  total  was  too  much  for  him — ^might  have  been 
too  much  for  older  and  more  level  heads  than  Barry 
Annan's.  ' 

"Thursday,"  he  whispered,  as  she  slowly  released  her 
hand  from  his — freed  it  with  a  sort  of  winning  reluctance. 

"Yes,"  she  breathed,  "at  seven." 

"And  many,  many  other  hours  together,"  he  added  fer- 
vently. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Mr.  Annan." 

Sitting  in  silence  there  he  had  a  confused  idea  that  never 
had  he  encountered  a  feminine  mind  so  utterly  purged  of 
material  sentiment. 

"It  behooves  me  to  keep  my  own  brain  as  clear,"  he 
thought,  vaguely, — seeming  to  realise  that  it  was  no  longer 
entirely  so. 

Suddenly  the  drone  of  the  machine  ceased;  the  lights 
went  on ;  the  screen  faded. 

All  around  him  people  stirred,  rose,  turned  to  exchange 
impressions,  congratulations. 

The  light  sobered  Annan.  He  turned  almost  apprehen- 
sively to  look  at  Eris. 

Something  radical  happened  to  him  as  he  met  her  grey 
eyes, — crystal-clear  eyes,  beautiful,  unabashed. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  sounded  odd  in  his 
own  ears. 

Once  more  he  took  her  hand,  and  the  contact  stirred  him 
to  definite  emotion.  Had  she  been  experienced  she  could 
have  seen  much  to  astonish  and  trouble  her  girl's  soul  in  this 
young  man's  face. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  with  adorable  frankness,  " — ^and 
thank  you — always — Mr.  Annan." 

As  he  went  away  toward  the  corridor  where  Coltfoot  stood 


184  E  R  I  S 

talking  to  Rosalind,  he  began  to  realise  that  something  had 
happened  to  him. 

Rosalind,  seeing  him,  crinkled  her  eyes  and  wrinkled  her 
fascinating  nose : 

"Did  you  turn  her  head,  Barry?  Is  that  child  to  follow 
Betsy  and  myself?    Everybody  noticed  you." 

He  said,  annoyed :  "She  wouldn't  consider  that  very  hu- 
morous." 

Rosalind's  dark  eyes  widened  lazily :  "Did  you  suppose  T 
meant  it,  Barry  ?  You're  rather  crude  for  a  subtle  novelist, 
aren't  you  ?" 

"She  wouldn't  understand  it,"  he  repeated,  annoyed. 
"She's  an  unusually  sensitive  girl." 

He  went  on  along  the  corridor  to  take  leave  of  Frank 
Donnell. 

Rosalind  looked  at  Coltfoot,  inclined  to  giggle. 

"Don't  think  it,"  said  Coltfoot  with  a  shrug. 

"I  don't  know — "  Rosalind  turned  and  looked  across  at 
Eris.  Smull  had  seated  himself  beside  her  in  Annan's  chair. 
Other  men  gathered  around  her.  Her  beauty  startled  Rosa- 
lind. 

"It  would  be  funny,"  she  said.  "That  child  has  no  heart. 
Neither  has  Barry  Annan.  .  .  .  They're  merely  a  pair  of 
minds.  ...  It  would  be  funny  if  they  became  entangled 
.  .  .  intellectually." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THEY  didn't  dine  together  at  Annan's  house  in  Gov- 
ernor's Place;  or  anywhere  else. 
Eris  tried  desperately  to  get  him  on  the  telephone.     A 
few  minutes  before  train  time  she  telegraphed: 

"Am  leaving  unexpectedly  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon 
for  the  Pacific  Coast.  Heart-broken  on  account  of  our  en- 
gagement.   Shall  write  from  train. 

"Eris." 

When  Annan  returned  about  six  to  order  dinner  and 
flowers,  arid  to  dress  for  the  role  of  host,  he  found  her 
telegram. 

Whatever  is  snatched  away  from  man  or  beast  instantly 
becomes  disproportionately  desirable. 

It  was  so  with  Annan.  Suddenly  he  realised  how  much 
he  wanted  Eris.  Really  he  had  not  thought  much  about  this 
dinner,  except  immediately  after  their  meeting  at  the  Look- 
ing Glass. 

He  had  borne  it  in  mind,  impatiently  the  first  day,  pleas- 
urably  the  second,  with  complacent  equanimity  thereafter. 
But  he  had  remembered  it. 

For  the  moments  of  surprise  and  emotion  so  charmingly 
experienced  in  the  projection  room  had  little  else  except  sur- 
prise for  a  foundation.    Curiosity  alone  perpetuated  them. 

To  a  young  man  agreeably  immersed  in  his  own  affairs 
such  episodes  became  incidents  very  quickly.  Only  an  un- 
expected obstacle  evokes  afresh  circumstances  and  emotions 
which  have  become  vague. 

135 


186  E  R  I  S 

Her  telegram  did  this.  Disappointment,  retrospection, 
regret,  annoyance,  sentimental  impatience, — these  in  se- 
quence possessed  the  young  man  as  he  sat  holding  her  tele- 
gram. The  only  mitigation  seemed  to  be  in  her  statement 
concerning  her  broken  heart.     That  flattered  and  helped. 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  dine  out,  but  he  didn't  want  to  dine 
at  home  alone.  The  conflict  continued,  full  of  sentimental 
indecision. 

It  ended  by  his  ringing  for  Mrs.  Sniffen,  ordering  a  cold 
bite  on  a  tray,  stripping  to  undershirt,  chamber-robe,  and 
slippers,  and  plunging  into  his  novel,  now  well  under  way. 

About  eleven  next  morning,  in  similar  attire,  and  with  an 
electric  fan  whizzing  in  the  room,  he  interrupted  work  long 
enough  to  open  the  envelope  which  Mrs.  Sniffen  brought 
him  and  which  bore  a  special  delivery  stamp: 

"Dear  Mr.  Annan: 

"I  tried  to  get  you  on  the  telephone  up  to  the  last  moment. 
The  disappointment  seemed  too  much  for  me  after  I  had 
waited  so  long.  I  could  have  wept.  I  didn't ;  I  don't  weep 
easily.  But  the  vision  of  the  evening  we  might  have  had 
haunts  me  every  moment. 

"This  is  what  happened.  The  directors  who  finance  the 
Betsy  Blythe  Films  suddenly  decided  to  send  us  to  the  Coast 
for  the  new  pictures.    The  reasons,  I  believe,  are  economical. 

"Can  you  imagine  the  company's  consternation?  We  had 
no  time  to  prepare  ourselves.  If  Mr.  Smull  and  Betsy  hadn't 
stopped  and  taken  me  in  Mr.  Smull's  car  I  couldn't  have 
caught  the  train. 

"My  only  consolation  is  that  the  play  seems  to  be  a  good 
one  and  they  have  given  me  a  part — a  darling  part  if  I  do  it 
decently.  I  was  to  have  had  only  a  maid's  part  but  Miss 
Cassell  refused  to  go  to  the  Coast  and  there  wasn't  time  to 
recast  the  part. 

"Even  then  I  don't  think  they'd  have  given  it  to  me  if 


E  R  I  S  137 

Mr,  Smull  hadn't  said  that  he'd  Hke  me  to  have  it.  I  pray 
humbly  that  I  may  be  equal  to  it.  Never  has  anything  so 
excited  me  as  this  chance. 

"But  if  only  I  could  have  known  it,  and  spent  every  second 
talking  it  over  with  you !  I  don't  mean  that  Mr.  Donnell  is 
not  my  hope  and  salvation;  but  you  are  you,  Mr.  Annan, 
and  there  is  no  other  man's  mind  that  stimulates  and  enthralls 
mine  as  yours  does. 

"Please  don't  forget  me.  Please  write  to  me.  I  know  it 
is  a  very  great  deal  to  ask  of  such  a  man.  But  you  are  kind, 
and  you  are  famous;  and  I  am  ignorant  and  a  nobody. 
Whatever  you  say  helps.  Just  your  voice,  even  your  smile, 
acts  on  me  like  intellectual  tonics — that  lazy,  wise,  kindly, 
perplexing  smile,  so  mischievously  experienced,  that  encour- 
ages yet  warns!  I  wanted  it  so  desperately.  I  needed  it — 
and  you — just  when  I  felt  that  my  career  was  beginning. 
Oh,  Mr.  Annan,  please  understand  and  please,  please  don't 
forget  me." 

"Eris." 

In  a  postscript  she  gave  her  address  in  Los  Angeles. 

Much  flattered  and  genuinely  touched,  he  wrote  her  imme- 
diately. 

The  glamour  lasted  for  the  next  few  weeks.  Complacency 
is  a  great  stimulation  to  memory.  A  bland  satisfaction  in 
the  ardent  mental  attitude  of  Kris  toward  himself  incited 
him  to  real  effort  in  his  letters.  He  became  expansive — a. 
trifle  sentimental  when  he  thought  of  the  girl's  beauty — but 
only  airily  so — and  he  rather  settled  down  to  a  Chester- 
fieldian  attitude  toward  his  unusual  and  odd  little  protegee. 

Wisdom  in  wads  he  administered  with  a  surprising  sol- 
emnity foreign  to  his  accustomed  attitude  toward  himself. 

However,  his  flippancy  was  an  attitude  as  far  as  it  con- 
cerned his  belief  in  himself.  Because  this  young  man  really 
took  himself  very  devoutly. 


138  E  R  I  S 

He  prescribed  a  course  of  reading  for  Eris.  He  formu- 
lated rules  of  conduct,  exposed  pitfalls,  impressed  maxims 
in  epigrams,  discoursed  on  creative  and  interpretive  art.  It 
was  perversely  clever.  He  used  some  of  the  material  in  his 
novel. 

This  was  all  very  well.  The  girl's  letters  were  charming 
and  touching;  the  correspondence  was  excellent  practice  for 
him,  and  part  of  it  could  be  salvaged  for  practical  ends. 

But  there  were  in  use  at  that  time,  among  the  semi-edu- 
cated, two  cant-words  which  the  public,  now,  was  working 
to  rags ; — psychology  and  complex. 

And  it  was  these  words  that  suggested  to  Annan  that  his 
letters  to  Eris  might,  more  profitably  to  himself,  become  ex- 
periments in  research  and  vivisection. 

Toward  that  angle, — and  with  all  the  delicacy  and  tech- 
nical skill  possessed  by  him, — ^he  started  a  cautious  explora- 
tion of  her  character  as  a  "type,"  including  that  untouched 
and  undiscovered  side  which  comprehended  the  impulses,  ma- 
terial motives,  emotional  passions,  popularly  attributed  to 
the  human  heart  in  contradistinction  to  phenomena  purely 
intellectual. 

Several  letters  came  from  her  without  any  notice  being 
taken  of  his  investigations.  Apparently  she  either  possessed 
no  such  side  to  her  character  or  else  she  did  not  understand 
him.  Anyway,  there  was  no  response,  and  therefore  no 
revelation  of  herself  to  satisfy  his  professional  curiosity. 

One  thing  seemed  to  become  clearer  and  clearer;  he  had 
not  appealed  to  this  girl  except  intellectually.  Of  lesser  senti- 
ment in  her  there  was  not  a  hint  or  a  trace  in  all  her  corre- 
spondence— only  ardent  gratitude  for  material  kindness  and 
passionate  response  to  a  generous  mind  that  had  offered  itself 
to  a  starved  one. 

He  had  concluded  that  his  subtle  and  mischievous  episto- 
lary philandering  was  not  destined  to  reveal  any  dormant 
inclinations  to  response  in  Eris — much  less  any  natural  apti- 
tude or  acquired  skill. 


E  R I  S  189 

And  he  was  debating  in  his  leisure  moments  whether  or 
not  such  total  unconsciousness  was  normal  or  otherwise, 
when  out  of  a  serene  sky  came  a  letter  from  her  in  reply  to 
his  last  and  cleverest  experiment  in  reactions : 

"Dear  Mr.  Annan: 

"Until  rather  lately  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  analyse  my 
feehng  of  friendship  for  you. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  how  to.  I  have  tried.  It  confuses 
me. 

"I  like  everything  you  say.  I  didn't  realise  I  was  silent 
concerning  any  phase  of  our  friendship.  But  I  had  not 
thought  of  your  having  any  liking  for  me  outside  of  your 
natural  kindness  to  me.  Or  that  I  had  any  personal  charm 
for  you;  or  that  you  might  like  to  be  with  me  even  if  we  do 
not  say  a  word  to  each  other. 

"That  idea  of  companionship  had  not  entered  my  head. 
But  now  that  you  have  spoken  of  it — or  your  letters,  lately, 
have  seemed  to  suggest  it — I  am  venturing  to  reply  that,  just 
being  with  you  is  a  pleasure  to  me  .  .  .  just  to  walk  with 
you  and  remain  mentally  idle,  I  mean..  I  realised  it  only 
when  you  spoke  of  it. 

"Friendship  seems  to  be  very  complex.  You  must  re- 
member that  this  is  my  first  intelligent  friendship.  It  quite 
overshadows  all  other  associations.  So  I  really  do  not  know 
just  where  my  feeling  for  you  could  fail  to  include  all  the 
best  that  is  in  me. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  If  only  you  were  here! 
Do  you  know  that  if  it  were  not  for  your  letters  I'd  be  un- 
happy here,  in  spite  of  my  beloved  profession  ? 

"Is  this  what  you  would  like  to  have  me  say  to  you? 

"You  drew  a  picture  of  yourself  as  a  brain  on  two  legs ; 
and  of  me  in  academic  cap  and  gown,  with  a  silly  expression 
on  my  face,  clasping  both  hands  in  ecstasy  before  you.  Out 
of  your  brain  comes  a  balloon  with  something  written  in 
Latin — 'Animus  est  in  patinis.' 


140  ERIS 

"I  asked  Mr.  Donnell.  He  said  it  meant,  *My  mind  is 
among  the  sauce-pans.'  In  other  words,  you  mean  that  your 
mind  sometimes  harbours  material  thoughts,  while  mine  is 
the  stupid,  empty  mind  of  a  horrid,  unhuman,  intellectual 
sponge ! 

"That  is  very  impudent  of  you.  Good  heavens,  if  I  am 
like  that,  it  will  ruin  me  for  my  profession! 

"Experience  is  what  I  lack.  I  sit  and  actually  beat  my 
head  with  both  hands  when,  at  moments,  I  catch  a  glimmer 
of  all  that  I  ought  to  be  and  ought  to  have  experienced,  and 
ought  to  know. 

"Education  is  everything!  One's  career  depends  on  it. 
Yet,  is  experience  necessary  to  education  ?  It  can  not  always 
be.  The  prospect  would  seem  terrifying.  And  of  course 
any  such  theory  becomes  ridiculous  in  the  last  analysis. 

"We  were  discussing  that  question  the  other  evening — 
Mr.  Donnell,  Betsy,  Mr.  Smull — he  arrived  unexpectedly  last 
Monday — ^and  I  was  listening,  not  taking  part  in  the  discus- 
sion— when  Mr.  Smull  said  that  nobody  was  fit  to  play  a 
person  in  love  unless  he  or  she  had  actually  been  in  love. 

"You  know  that  startled  me.  After  a  while  it  scared  me, 
too. 

"I  asked  Mr.  Donnell,  privately,  if  that  were  true,  and  he 
laughed  and  said  that  several  perfectly  respectable  women, 
guiltless  of  murder,  had  successfully  played  Lady  Macbeth. 

"But  I'm  still  wondering.  Of  course  it  isn't  necessary  to 
murder  somebody  in  order  to  play  the  part  of  an  assassin. 

"But  murder  is  an  overt  act.  A  murderous  state  of  mind 
need  not  have  any  concrete  consequence. 

"Love,  also,  must  be  a  state  of  mind. 

"So  do  you  think  that  one  must  have  been  actually  in  love 
to  interpret  convincingly  in  a  play  whatever  results  of  love 
are  to  be  presented? 

"I  asked  Betsy.  She  said  yes.  So  I  suppose  she  has  been 
in  love,  because  she  does  her  part  convincingly. 

"But  what  about  me  if  ever  I  am  cast  for  such  a  part? 


E  R  I  S  141 

Yet,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  ought  to  have  enough  instinct  and 
intelligence  to  know  how  to  be  convincing, 

"You  see  Mr.  Smull  wants  me  to  play  second  to  Betsy  in 
the  next  production ;  and  the  part  is  a  girl  in  love  who  has 
a  most  unhappy  time  until  the  very  end  of  the  play. 

*'One  can  study,  read  up,  and  prepare;  but  one  can  not 
enter  into  that  state  of  mind  at  will, 

"So,  if  they  give  me  the  part  I  have  concluded  to  approxi- 
mate by  thinking  of  my  friendship  for  you,  which  is  the 
most  important  event  in  my  life. 

"It  ought  to  represent  the  state  of  mind  in  question.  It's 
got  to.  Do  you  think  I  could  play  that  part  convincingly? 
Why  not?  Because  my  idea  of  a  person  in  love  is  that  there 
is  only  one  object  of  supreme  affection.  And  I  don't  care 
for  anybody  as  much  as  I  do  for  you.  Why  can't  I  build  on 
that? " 

Charmed,  humiliated,  thrilled  by  her  candour,  the  humour 
of  her  appeal  went  straight  home  to  Annan, 

For  here  was  this  girl  innocently  proposing  to  analyse  and 
use  her  friendship  for  him  to  aid  her  in  her  profession; — 
the  very  thing  that  he  had  been  doing  so  cynically. 

Every  word  she  wrote  was  helping  him,  professionally. 
Every  line  he  had  written  in  reply  was  evidently  a  source  of 
professional  inspiration  to  her. 

It  was  not  flattering  to  him,  but  it  was  funny.  And,  some- 
how, it  knocked  sentiment  out  of  his  letters:  knocked  out 
the  letters,  too,  toward  the  end  of  the  year. 

The  anesthetic  of  old  Doctor  Time  is  certain  and  irresist- 
ible. Sooner  or  later  constancy  fades,  memory  evaporates, 
humanity  succumbs.  Only  the  dog  resists  the  anesthetic  of 
old  Doctor  Time. 

By  February  Annan  had  been  in  arrears  for  two  months ; 
and  the  effort  to  re-open  the  correspondence  bored  him. 

Pigeon-holed,  the  memory  of  her  would  keep  sufficiently 
fresh  until  such  time — if  ever — she  was  resurrected  in  the 


142  ERIS 

flesh  and  came  again  into  the  trail  he  travelled  through  life. 

He  heard  of  her  occasionally  when  he  encountered  Rosa- 
lind, who  corresponded  with  Betsy, 

Eris  was  being  favourably  discussed  on  the  Coast. 

In  March  a  Betsy  Blythe  film  was  shown  at  The  Looking 
Glass, — following  that  first  film,  parts  of  which  he  had  seen 
the  previous  autumn  in  the  projection  room. 

Once  or  twice  he  attempted  to  see  the  new  picture — rather 
as  a  sort  of  obligation — but  the  place  was  crowded.  Some- 
how time  passed  very  swiftly  for  Annan;  and  when  again 
he  thought  about  it  the  picture  was  gone ;  and  a  new  Betsy 
Blythe  picture  had  replaced  it, — playing  to  a  crowded  house 
as  before; — and  Annan  went  once,  failed  to  get  in,  and  let 
it  slip  his  memory. 

Not  that  his  conscience  did  not  meddle  with  his  compla- 
cency at  times.    It  did. 

Her  last  three  letters  still  remained  unanswered. 

But  his  novel  was  the  vital,  supreme  thing  which  crowded 
out  all  else — even  the  several  pretty  and  receptive  girls  whose 
stellar  orbits  had  intersected  his  during  the  winter  and  early 
spring. 

The  joy  of  literary  achievement  was  his  chief  est  pleasure; 
its  perils  his  excitement,  its  fatigue  the  principal  sleep-inducer 
that  sent  him  at  last  to  a  tardy  pillow. 

Colt  foot  read  a  typed  copy. 

"It'll  be  the  making  of  you,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
all  wrong,  Barry.    Popular  and  punk !" 

"Why  the  devil  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"It  is  wrong." 

They  were  dining  at  Annan's  a  deux,  and  had  strolled  into 
the  living  room  with  their  cigars. 

"You  sit  down,  Mike,  and  tell  me  why  my  book  is  popular 
and  punk!"  said  Annan  wrathfuUy. 

Coltfoot  dropped  onto  the  piano  stool,  sounded  a  few  dis- 
sonances evolved  by  a  master-modernist ;  sneered. 


E  R I  S  148 

"Barry,"  he  said,  "if  art  isn't  wholesome  it's  only  near- 
art.  What  is  good  is  also  healthy.  If  art  is  good  it  is  sane, 
always;  and  always  beautiful." 

"I've  heard  that  song  you  sing.    It's  an  ancient  rag,  Mike." 

"It's  real  music,  Barry — not  tJiis! — "  he  struck  a  series  of 
dissonant,  ugly,  half-crazed  chords  from  the  most  modern 
creation  of  the  most  modem  of  modernists.  "That's  dis- 
eased," he  said.  "There  is  no  virtue,  no  beauty,  no  art  in 
disease." 

"Of  course,"  remarked  Annan,  "I  might  mention  am- 
bergris, pate-de-fois-gras,  the  virtues  of  ergot,  the  play  of 
colour,  and  the  flower-like  perfume  of  a  dying  grayling,  and 
the " 


"If  you're  going  to  be  flippant " 

"No.    Goon,  Mike." 

"Barry,  do  you  understand  the  origin  of  this  modern  're- 
volt'— this  sinister  cult  of  dullness,  perversity,  ugliness?  It 
was  born  in  Bolshevism,  Which  is  degeneracy.  It  is  the 
worship  of  ugliness.     It  is  known  to  scientists  as  Satanism. 

"Once  the  prisons  and  asylums  were  the  ultimate  destina- 
tions of  the  degenerate.  Because  degenerates,  then,  had  no 
safe  outlet  in  the  fine  arts.  Their  manifestations  were  mat- 
ters for  police  control. 

"Now,  they  have  their  outlets  in  literature,  drama,  music, 
sculpture,  painting.  And  their  vicious  or  crazy  creations 
profoundly  impress  The  Great  American  Ass.  Why? 
Because  he's  ignorant,  and  art  awes  him.  But  he's  also, 
physically,  a  healthy  beast,  and  he  doesn't  understand  the 
degeneracy  that  masquerades  as  art. 

"What  is  ugly,  morbid,  dull,  rotten,  cynical,  pessimistic, 
is  degenerate.  To  dwell  upon  disease  in  creative  work  is 
degeneracy.  To  seek  out,  analyse,  celebrate,  perpetuate  ugli- 
ness, deformity,  decay,  is  degeneracy. 

"Yet,  that  is  modernism.  That  is  the  trend.  That  is  what 
is  being  done.  That  is  what  the  new  generation  of  creative 
genius  offers, — and  what  it  calls  realism, — a  dreary  multi- 


144  E  R I  S 

pHcity  of  photographic  items;  a  sordid  recapitulation  of 
daily  and  meaningless  details;  inspiration  from  models  of 
distorted  minds  and  bodies ;  ugliness  lovingly  delved  for  and 
dragged  out  into  clean  sunshine ;  triumphant  exposure  of  the 
mentally,  morally,  and  physically  crippled. 

"But  there  is  the  worse  phenomenon — the  degenerate 
writer,  painter,  sculptor,  who  sees  ugliness  in  beauty,  decay 
in  health,  atrophy  in  the  normal, — and  who  caricatures  the 
healthy  and  beautiful  living  model  to  evolve  the  ugly  and 
obscene  spectres  that  haunt  his  brain. 

"Such  are  the  so-called  modernists.  Their  outer  limit 
inside  the  bounds  of  sanity  are  Manet  and  Degas. 

"Beyond  that  is  the  bedlam  of  Cezanne  and  Gauguin " 

''Say,  old  chap " 

"I  am  saying  it.  It's  the  same  old  crisis — Rome  or  the 
Barbarians;  Europe  or  Attila;  the  Prussians  or  Civil- 
ization. 

"I  tell  3rou  these  half-crazed  brains  are  beating  at  the  gates 
of  the  world's  sanity  to  overthrow  Reason  from  her  very 
seat! 

"Any  alienist  can  tell  you  what  the  cult  of  ugliness  means 
— what  the  morbid  desire  to  mutilate  means.  What  does  it 
matter  whether  the  living  human  body  be  the  victim,  or  the 
attack  be  made  upon  figments  of  the  imagination — whether 
upon  the  established  order  of  harmony  in  music,  or  upon  the 
pure  standard  of  Greek  sculpture,  or  upon  the  immortal 
beauty  and  symmetry  in  the  pictures  of  the  Great  Masters ! 

"The  point  is  this :  the  desire  to  mutilate  is  there ;  the  mur- 
derous mania  has  discovered  a  safe  outlet  with  pen,  brush, 
chisel  for  weapons  instead  of  pistol  and  butcher  knife. 

"The  modernist  is  no  longer  a  Ripper,  except  by  intention. 
His  degenerate  fury  wreaks  itself  on  Art. 

"Go  to  a  Modernist  Exhibition.  Once  the  walls  of  an 
asylum  would  have  been  decorated  with  these  drawings. 
Read  modernist  literature.  Scrawled  in  prison  bath-rooms 
would  have  been  these  lines  in  saner  days.     Listen  to  the 


E  R  I  S  146 

music  of  your  modernist.  Only  Bedlam  could  kave  produced 
and  enjoyed  it,  once. 

"But  to-day  all  crack-brains  are  being  drawn  together 
under  the  Bolshevistic  impulse  to  swarm,  mutilate  what  is 
beautiful,  destroy  what  lies  within  the  eternal  laws,  annihilate 
all  order,  all  that  has  withstood  the  test  of  civilisation. 

**The  Great  American  Ass  hears  the  pandemonium  and 
looks  over  the  walls  at  the  crazed  herd  of  his  demented  fel- 
lows milling  around  the  citadel. 

"He  looks  at  them  and  wags  his  ears,  interested,  perplexed. 
They'll  tear  him  to  pieces  if  they  get  in " 

"Good  God!"  burst  out  Annan,  " — what  has  this  to  do 
with  my  novel " 

"It's  tainted.  It's  infected  with  the  cult  of  mgKness.  So 
were  your  short  stories  in  the  Planet  that  gave  yoti  a  name  I 
You're  stained  with  modernism." 

"Damn  it,  I'm  personally  decent " 

"Some  of  the  lunatics  are,  too.  But  the  huliabakx)  they're 
making  is  bound  to  affert — and  infect — impressionable 
minds.  All  healthy  and  creative  minds  are  impressionable. 
Yours  is.  This  satanic  cult  of  ugliness  has  influenced  your 
mind  to  more  sombre,  more  incredulous,  less  wholesome 
creations, 

"All  genius  is  imitative  in  some  degree.  You  don't  escape, 
Barry.  The  body-vermin  of  literature — the  so-called  modern 
critics — all  are  applauding  you  and  tempting  you  to  perpetu- 
ate more  of  that  sinister  ugliness  which  deformed  your  first 
work. 

"Don't  do  it.  Remember  the  real  standards.  They  never 
change;  only  fashion  changes.  Stick  to  the  clean  master- 
jobs  of  the  real  giants  in  your  profession.  Tliose  are  the 
standards.  Life  is  splendid.  Man  is  fine.  The  beauty  of 
both  are  best  worth  recording  in  art.  Leave  degeneracy  to 
medicine.  Leave  modernism  to  the  asylum.  Make  the  cleav- 
age definite  between  art  and  science.  Find  your  themes  in 
goodness,  in  beauty,  in  the  nobility  of  the  human  mind " 


146  ERIS 

"Good  heavens,  Mike,  are  you  one  of  those  moral  fanatics 
who  evoke  blue-laws  even  for  literature?" 

Coltfoot  slowly  shook  his  head:  "Barry,  you  won't  win 
out  until  you  change  your  attitude  toward  the  God  who  made 
you  without  a  blemish.  I'm  telling  you.  The  lunatic  can't 
last.  The  dirty,  greedy,  commercial  Jew  or  Christian  art 
dealer  or  publisher  who  exploits  Satanism,  Bolshevism,  in- 
sanity, for  the  sake  of  dirty  dollars, — ^he  has  his  thirty  pieces 
of  silver.  And  that's  all.  ...  I  took  mine — and  published 
your  stories.  I'm  through.  I'm  a  he-Magdalen.  I'm  oB 
that  stuff." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I've  chucked  the  Planet/'  said  Coltfoot  carelessly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  NNAN'S  dreary,  unpleasant  and  brilliantly  ugly  novel 
■^*-  was  published  in  April.  There  were  three  printings  in 
the  first  week.  Five  in  the  second.  In  contradistinction  to 
"small-town  stuff,"  it  was  "big-town  stuff."  New  York  of 
the  middle-lower  class.  And  it  was  New  York.  Stenograph 
and  photograph  could  verify  every  word  uttered  and  every 
portrait.  The  accuracy  of  its  penny-gossip  was  amazing. 
It  was  the  apotheosis  in  epigram  of  the  obvious. 

The  determined  ignoring  of  all  beauty ;  the  almost  fanatical 
blindness  to  ever>'thing  except  what  is  miserable,  piddling, 
sordid,  and  deformed  in  humanity ;  the  pathetic  loyalty  to  the 
sort  of  "truth"  which  has  a  place  in  economic  statistics  if  not 
in  creative  art — the  drab,  hopeless,  ignoble  atmosphere  where 
swill  was  real  enough  to  smell  and  where  all  delicacy  and 
functional  privacy  was  sternly  disregarded,  caused  a  literary 
uproar  in  the  reading  belt,  and  raucous  applause  among  all 
Realists. 

There  are  good  Christians  and  good  Jews,  both  admirable 
and  loyal  citizens  of  the  Republic,  good  scholars,  good  sol- 
diers, good  men. 

There  are  intellectual  Bolshevists  among  Christians— de- 
generate fanatics,  perverted  Puritans;  and  among  Jews  are 
their  equivalents. 

The  bawling  Christian  literary  critic  who  assaults  with 
Bolshevistic  violence  all  literature  except  his  own  is  a  privi- 
leged blackmailer  and  commits  legal  libel. 

His  Jewish  confrere  is  no  more  vulgar.  Both  are  only 
partly  educated.  They  live  parasitically  upon  the  body  of 
literature.     They  are  cooties. 

147 


148  ERIS 

The  sercral  more  notorious  ones  welcomed  Annan.  They 
liked  what  he  wrote  because  it  was  what  they  would  have 
written  if  they  could.  Later,  if  he  didn't  continue  to  write 
what  they  liked,  they'd  bite  him.  They  had  no  other  means 
of  retaliation. 

One,  named  Minkwitz,  who  made  a  good  living  by  biting 
harder  and  with  less  discrimination  than  the  usual  literary 
cootie,  wrote  a  violent  article  in  praise  of  raw  realism,  and 
crowned  Annan  with  it. 

A  female  pervert  on  a  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  periodi- 
cal discovered  that  there  was  a  "delicate  stench"  about  An- 
nan's realism  which  she  found  "rather  stimulating  than 
otherwise." 

The  joyiessness  of  the  novel  appealed  to  the  bluenose.  He 
read  it  and  ordered  his  family  to  read  it.  They'd  better 
learn  as  much  as  possible  about  the  "worm  that  never  dies." 

All  crack-brains  read  it  and  approved. 

Then  the  Great  American  Ass  read  it.  All  Iowa  borrowed 
it  from  circulating  libraries.  Oklahoma  read  it.  And  finally 
Nebraska  placed  upon  it  the  official  chaplet  of  literary  success. 

Finally  everybody  read  it — everybody  from  uplifter  to 
shoplifter. 

And  it  became  a  best-seller  in  rivalry  with  the  exudations 
of  the  favourite  female  writer  of  the  Centre  of  Population — 
a  noisy  and  bad-tempered  woman  whose  only  merit  was  that 
she  unwittingly  furnished  scientific  minds  with  material  for 
healthy  laughter. 

Thus  the  first  novel  of  Barry  Annan,  purposely  un-serial- 
ised  as  a  bdUon  d'essai,  ascended  to  the  skies  like  the  fat, 
bourgeois  and  severed  soul  of  Louis  XVI,  amid  a  roll  of 
revoluticmary  drums. 

The  unusual  aspect  of  the  case  was  that,  technically,  the 
book  was  nearly  perfect ;  the  style  admirable  and  with  scarce 
a  flaw.  Now  the  Great  American  Ass  understands  nothing 
of  literary  workmanship.  Style  means  nothing  to  him.  Yet 
he  bolted  Annan's  book  and  seemed  to  eniov  the  flavour. 


E  R  I  S  149 

Seemed  to.    For  one  never  can  know  anything  ck&aile  about 
an  ass. 

From  the  Pacific  coast  Betsy  Blythe  wrote  ABnan.  She 
had  read  the  novel.  That,  ostensibly,  was  her  Iheme.  She 
applauded  his  fame,  expressed  herself  as  proud  to  be  num- 
bered among  the  friends  of  such  a  celebrity. 

Then  there  was  some  gossip  about  herself,  the  company, — 
inquiry  as  to  how  he  had  liked  the  pictures  which  she  as- 
sumed he  had  seen  in  the  East. 

Then  there  was  a  paragraph:  "What  are  yoa  doing  to 
our  Eris,  Barry?  I  suppose  it's  what  you  did  k)  me,  to 
Rosalind,  to  every  fresh  and  attractive  face  which  possessed 
ears  to  listen  to  your  golden  vocabulary.  StiH,  I  don't  see 
how  you  had  time :  you  saw  her  only  that  one  afternoon  in 
the  projection  room,  she  tells  me. 

"But  I  suppose  you're  as  deadly  by  letter  as  otherwise. 
Like  measles  I  suppose  we  all  have  got  to  have  yoti.  Eris 
had  it  harder,  that's  all. 

"But  I'm  going  to  tell  you  that  when  she  recovers, — ^as 
we  all  do, — you'll  be  surprised  at  the  charming  creature  she 
is  turning  into. 

"I  honestly  think  she  is  the  most  intelligent  girl  I  ever 
knew.  She  not  only  looks  but  she  sees.  She  learns  like 
lightning.  The  odd  thing  about  her  is  the  decided  quality  in 
her.  Her  mind  is  the  mind  of  a  gentlewoman.  As  for  the 
externals — trick  of  voice  and  speech  and  bearing,  k  scarcely 
seems  as  though  she  acquired  them.  Rather  they  seem  to 
have  been  latent  in  her,  and  have  merely  developed. 

"Yet  she  tells  me  she  is  the  daughter  of  very  plain  people. 

"Well,  Eris,  in  her  way,  is  already  a  celebrity  on  the 
Coast.  She  has  become  quite  the  loveliest  to  kyck  at  out 
here.  And  she  is  a  natural  actress.  There,  my  friend !  Am 
I  generous? 

"Alas,  Barry,  she  worries  me.  I  like  her,  admire  her^ 
but — it  seems  ignoble  in  me — I  can't  stand  the  cxraipetition. 


160  E  R I  S 

We  can't  go  on  together.  She's  too  pretty  and  too  clever. 
It  seems  impossible  to  bury  her  under  any  part,  no  matter 
how  rotten. 

"There'll  come  a  time  when  the  Betsy  Blythe  Films  will 
mean  only  Eris. 

"If  she's  going  to  become  as  good  as  that  she  ought  to 
have  her  own  company.  She  couldn't  stand  such  competi- 
tion ;  nobody  could ;  and  I'm  not  going  to. 

'7  don't  want  to  bury  her;  but  if  we  go  on  playing  to- 
gether she'll  bury  me.  It's  right  that  we  should  part,  pro- 
fessionally.   It's  only  fair  to  both  of  us. 

"That  darned  Albert  SmuU  is  responsible.  He's  been  out 
here  three  times.  When  it  comes  to  casting  the  company, 
outside  of  myself,  what  he  wants  is  done.  And  he's  mad 
about  Eris. 

"The  last  time  he  came  out  here,  his  partner,  Leopold 
Shill,  came  with  him.  Between  them  they  do  two-thirds  of 
our  financing.  Well,  while  they  were,  as  always,  perfectly 
friendly  to  me,  their  interest  was  in  Eris.  How  the  devil  am 
I  to  make  it  plain  to  them  that  Eris  and  I  ought  not  to  be  in 
the  same  company? 

"I  could  explain  it  to  her  and  she'd  understand.  But  Al- 
bert Smull  and  Leo  Shill  would  misunderstand,  utterly,  and 
put  me  down  as  a  jealous  cat. 

"So  'that's  that,'  as  Eris  has  it  when  she's  made  up  her 
mind.  I've  made  up  mine.  I've  got  to  kiss  her  good-bye. 
But  when  I  do  I'll  kiss  a  future  star.  I'll  say  so.  You  tell 
'em. 

"Good-bye,  you  philandering  but  lovable  egoist.  I  like 
your  rotten  novel — not  spontaneously — but  because  if  one 
only  could  like  that  sort  of  sob-stuff  it's  the  stuffiest,  sobby- 
est  story  I  ever  snivelled  over. 

"Betsy." 

"P.  S. — ^Your  dowdy,  disagreeable  aunt,  Mrs.  Magnelius 
Grandcourt,  is  in  Pasadena  for  her  health — maybe  her  tem- 
per, too — and  she  was  nasty  to  me  because  I'm  in  pictures. 


E  R  I  S  151 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind:  nobody  pays  any  attention  to 
those  old  dames  who  ruled  New  York  a  decade  ago.  All 
that  ended  with  the  war.  She  knows  darned  well  where  I 
belong. 

"But  the  funny  part  of  it  is  that  she's  taken  a  majestic 
shine  to  Eris.  She's  stopping  with  the  Pelham-Cliffords 
at  their  handsome  place  near  Pasadena,  and  the  Pelham- 
Cliffords  are  live  ones  and  they  let  us  shoot  some  scenes  on 
their  place. 

"That  was  how  your  aunt  had  an  opportunity  to  be  nasty 
to  me.  But  exactly  why  she  condescended  to  patronise  Eris, 
I  don't  know. 

"She  continually  asks  the  P-Cliffords  to  ask  Eris  over, 
Eris  goes  occasionally.  I  asked  her  point-blank  why  that 
peevish  old  party  was  so  amiable  to  her,  and  she  blushed  in 
that  engagingly  confused  way  and  said  that  your  aunt  knew 
her  great  grandmother. 

"Apparently  there  was  quality  in  the  forebears  of  Eris, 
or  that  dumpy  old  snob  wouldn't  have  made  any  fuss  over 
the  great  grandchild  of  somebody  who  died  years  and  years 
ago." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ANNAN  was  in  a  way  of  being  rather  pleased  with  him- 
self. Nobody  can  remain  entirely  tmshaken  by  the 
impact  of  the  sort  of  flattery  hurled  in  hunks  by  the  Great 
American  Ass. 

For  with  him  it  is  all  or  nothing,  repletion  or  starvation. 

Also,  unlike  his  French  and  British  brothers,  he  is  a  dis- 
loyal ass.  Also  a  capricious  one.  There  is  no  respect  in 
him  for  past  performance  once  lauded.  The  established 
favourite  grown  old  in  service  sooner  or  later  becomes  a 
target  for  his  heels. 

This  is  not  heartlessness ;  it  is  ignorance  of  what  has  been 
done  for  him  and  of  those  who  have  done  it. 

For  he  really  is  the  most  sentimental  of  asses.  Sentiment 
and  temper  are  the  two  outlets  for  the  uneducated.  They 
are  his.  Convince  the  Great  American  Ass  that  his  be- 
haviour is  callous,  capricious,  cruel,  and  he'd  asphyxiate  his 
victim  in  sentimental  saliva. 

For  this  secretion  foams  up  from  the  Centre  of  Population 
and  oozes  in  all  directions.  It  is  the  solvent  for  the  repul- 
sive, the  ugly,  the  sordid,  offered  in  the  pill  of  Art  by 
Modernism. 

But  what,  exactly,  this  pill  is  going  to  do  to  the  Great 
American  Ass  is  still  a  social  and  pathological  problem. 

Annan  was  up  to  his  neck  in  saliva.  That  great  army  of 
slight  acquaintances  with  which  the  average  man  is  afflicted 
became  old  friends  over  night. 

Annan  was  running  the  whole  gamut  from  these,  and 
from  readers  utterly  unknown  to  him.    Every  mail  brought 

152 


E  R  I  S  16» 

requests  for  loans,  autographs,  and  for  personal  assistance 
of  various  sorts ;  and  there  were  endless  charitable  appeals, 
offers  to  lecture,  offers  of  election  to  clubs,  guilds,  associa- 
tions, societies  he  never  heard  of ;  requests  for  his  patronage, 
his  endorsement  of  saleable  articles;  requests  for  criticism 
upon  the  myriad  efforts  of  unsuccessful  writers;  demands 
that  he  should  "place"  their  effusions;  personal  calls  from 
agents,  publishers,  cranks. 

And  there  was,  of  course,  a  great  influx  of  silliness — 
flirtatious  letters,  passionate  love  letters,  sentimental  re- 
quests for  signed  photographs.  And  among  these,  as  al- 
ways, were  offensive  letters,  repulsive  letters,  sinister  and 
usually  anonymous.    The  entire  gamut. 

Toward  him  there  was  a  new  and  flattering  attitude,  even 
in  old  friends,  and  no  matter  how  honest  and  sincere,  even 
in  those  who  disapproved  his  work,  this  unconscious  attitude 
toward  a  publicly  successful  man  was  noticeable. 

Otherwise,  in  public,  his  face  and  name  were  becoming 
sufficiently  well  known  to  attract  curiosity. 

In  shops  clerks  would  smirk  and  inquire,  "Mr.  Annan,  the 
novelist?"  Proprietors  and  underlings  in  his  accustomed 
haunts  were  likely  to  point  him  out  to  other  customers.  He 
was  becoming  accustomed  to  being  stared  at. 

Now,  some  of  these  phenomena  are  anything  but  agree- 
able to  the  newly  successful ;  but,  en  masse,  these  manifesta- 
tions are  not  calculated  to  inculcate  steadiness  and  modesty 
in  anybody. 

A  thousand  times  Annan  had  told  himself  that  no  suc- 
cess could  ever  unbalance  him  a  fraction  of  one  degree.  But 
success  is  an  insidious  fever.  One  walks  with  it  without 
suspecting  the  infection.  Without  knowing  that  three-quar- 
ters of  the  people  who  shake  one's  hand  are  carriers  of  this 
same  and  subtle  fever. 

However,  Barry  Annan  appeared  to  thrive.  All  was  well 
with  him.    All  was  going  "according  to  plan." 

His  newest  novel,  scarcely  begun,  promised  dazzlingly. 


IS*  E  R I  S 

He  was  eager,  always,  to  get  at  it.  That  was  a  most  ex- 
cellent sign.  He  even  preferred  writing  it  to  doing  anything 
else.    Another  good  sign. 

Otherwise  all  was  well  with  him,  and  going  well. 

His  love  affairs,  always  verbal  ones,  distracted  him  agree- 
ably and  were  useful  professionally.  Easily,  as  always,  he 
slipped  out  of  one  into  another  with  no  discomfort  to  him- 
self and  only  a  brief  but  deeper  pang  for  the  girl. 

Few  of  these  mildly  amourous  episodes  resulted  in  any- 
thing except  a  rather  more  agreeable  and  carefree  friend- 
ship,— ^as  in  the  cases  of  Betsy  Blythe  and  Rosalind  Shore. 
Disillusioned  they  liked  him  better  but  in  a  different  way. 

Probably  Eris  would,  too,  when  she  returned  from  the 
Coast, — if  ever  she  did  return. 

Thus,  without  effort,  he  reassured  himself  concerning 
her  three  unanswered  letters.  His  was  the  gayest  and  most 
optimistic  of  consciences, — a  little  gem  of  altruism.  Per 
se  it  fimctioned  beautifully.  He  never  meddled.  It  ran 
like  a  watch  ticking  cheerily. 

But  it  never  had  had  anything  serious  to  deal  with.  How 
heavy  a  weight  it  might  sustain  there  was  no  knowing. 

In  light  marching  order  his  conscience  had  guided  him 
very  nicely,  so  far.  How  would  it  steer  him  when  it  carried 
weight  ? 

It  was  early  in  June  that  he  encountered  Coltfoot  by 
chance.    They  had  not  met  in  months. 

Coltfoot  did  not  look  shabby  nor  even  wilted,  but  he  wore 
last  year's  summer  clothes  and  straw  hat,  and  his  dark, 
rather  grim  features  seemed  thinner. 

Annan  insisted  that  they  lunch  together  at  the  Province 
Club.  They  did.  Their  respective  reports  revealed  their 
situations  since  they  last  had  met;  Annan  had  only  success 
to  recapitulate, — Coltfoot  a  cordial  and  sincerely  happy 
listener. 

But  it  had  gone  otherwise  with  Coltfoot.    When  he  re- 


E  R I  S  165 

signed  from  the  Platiet  because  his  self-respect  couldn't 
tolerate  its  policy,  the  business  situation  was  not  such  as  to 
make  job  hunting  easy. 

"Outside  of  any  salary  I've  income  enough  to  live  on 
rather  rottenly,"  he  remarked,  "but  I  don't  want  to." 

"You  mean  you  haven't  a  job,  Mike?" 

"Oh,  I've  got  one — one  of  those  stinking  magazines  which 
can  be  bought  any  day  and  which  always  are  being  'revived' 
by  'new  blood.' 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  that  fresh  and  sanguinary  reservoir. 
We  may  file  a  petition  in  bankruptcy  or  continue.  There's 
no  telling." 

"What  an  outrage  \    A  man  of  your  calibre " 

"Don't  worry.  Somewhere  in  dusty  perspective  the  job 
I'm  destined  to  nab  is  lumbering  along  the  highway  of  life. 
I'll  hold  it  up  when  it  tries  to  pass'by  me." 

"You  know,  Mike,  that  if  ever  you're  short " 

"Thanks.  .  .  .  No  fear.  What  sort  of  fodder  do  you 
next  hand  out  to  your  famishing  public  ?" 

"I'm  preparing  it.  .  .  .  You  won't  like  it,  Mike." 

"Same  graft?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  graft " 

"You  poor  fish,  are  you  touchy  already?" 

Annan  reddened  very  slightly,  then  laughed : 

"Kick  my  pants  hard  if  ever  I'm  tltat,  Mike.  May  the 
Lord  defend  me  from  solemnity  and  smugness !  .  .  .  Mike, 
I  wish  we  could  see  more  of  each  other.  .  .  .  Things  worry 
me  a  lot  sometimes.  A  fellow  has  got  to  believe  in  himself, 
yet  complacency  is  destruction.  .  .  .  All  this — ^you  know 
what  I  mean— disconcerts  a  man.  ...  I  'admit  it.  It's 
come  to  a  point  where  actually  I  don't 'know  whether  my 
stuff  is  worth  immortality,  or  a  tinker's  dam,  or  zero. 

"Yet  I  feel  I  can  deliver  the  hootch." 

"It's  hootch  all  right." 

"Well — God  knows.  .  .  .  Like  the  Mad  Hatter — or  was 
it  the  Rabbit? — I've  used  the  best  ingredient." 


156  E  R  I  S 

"There  were  crumbs   in   it,"   said   Coltfoot.     "Besides, 
wood-alcohol  isn't  a  lubricant." 

Thus  from  simile  to  allegory,  to  inference  via  insinuation 
— discourse  in  terms  possible  only  between  old  friends  of 
different  species  born  in  the  same  culture  among  fellow 
bacilli  of  their  period. 
-   "Hang  it  all,"  insisted  Annan,  "the  world  isn't  swimming 


in  syrup 


"Nor  in  vinegar,  Barry." 

"I  can't  see  the  sugar-candy  aspect  of  a  story,"  said  An- 
nan. "All  that  lovey-lovey-sweetie-sweetie  goo  is  as  dead 
as  Qeopatra." 

"There  was  a  Qeopatra.  And  she  loved.  There  was 
beauty,  brilliancy,  ardour,  wit,  gaiety,  pleasure " 

''—And  the  asp!" 

"Yes,  but  why  star  the  asp?  It  bit  only  once.  Why  de- 
vote the  whole  story  to  ominous  apprehension,  the  relentless 
approach  of  horror  from  beyond  vast  horizons?  There 
were  long  intervals  of  sunlight  and  song  in  Cleopatra's  day. 
Why  make  of  your  book  a  monograph  on  poisons?  Why 
turn  it  into  a  history  of  the  asp?  Why  minutely  construct  a 
treatise  on  serpents? 

"Good  Lord,  Barry,  when  you've  a  good  dinner  served 
you  at  home,  why  slink  to  the  nearest  ash-can  and  rummage 
for  putrid  bones?" 

"After  all,  there  (sre  a  few  million  garbage  cans  in  the' 
•world." 

"Their  contents  are  not  nourishing.  Why  not  leave  such 
scraps  to  the  degenerates  so  well  known  to  the  medical  gentle- 
men who  specialize  in  them? — to  the  Gauguins,  Cezannes, 
Matisses  among  professors  and  students  in  that  ghastly 
clinic  where  subject,  operator  and  onlooker  are  scarcely 
distinguishable  to  the  normal  eye?" 

"Good  heavens,  what  bitterness!" 

"Good  God,  what  insanity !" 

"I  must  hew  out  my  own  way "  insisted  Annan  hotly* 


E  R  I  S  157 

"Hew  on!     But  follow  the  standard!    Don't  lose  sight 
of  the  standard " 


"Standards  change " 

"Not  The  Cross!" 

There  was  a  silence ;  then  Barry  said :  "Is  it  the  function 
of  art  to  make  people  better  by  lying  to  them?" 

"It  is  not  its  function  to  make  them  worse  by  offering 
distorted  truths," 

"Does  it  hurt  people  to  know  the  truer  and  less  pleasant 
side  of  life?" 

"No ;  but  it  hurts  them  to  dwell  on  it.  That's  what  mod- 
ernism makes  them  do." 

"Life  is  nine-tenths  unpleasant." 

"Then  say  so  in  a  line.  And  in  the  rest  of  your  story  try 
to  help  people  to  endure  those  nine-tenths  by  forgetting 
them  while  they  read  about  the  other  tenth.'* 

"I'm  not  going  to  mutilate  truth,"  retorted  Aiman. 

"You  do  mutilate  it.  The  school  that  influences  you 
mutilates  truth  as  was  mutilated  the  body  of  Osiris!  The 
school  that  stains  you  with  its  shadow  is  a  school  of  muti- 
lators. I'm  not  squeamish,  Barry.  I'm  for  plain  writing. 
The  truths  leered  at  or  slurred  over  or  ignored  by  conven- 
tion can  be  decently  presented  in  proportion  to  their  im- 
portance in  any  story. 

"But  satyrism  in  art,  the  satanism  that  worships  ugliness, 
the  perversion  that  twists,  distorts,  mutilates  the  human 
body,  the  human  mind,  nature,  the  only  flawless  masterpiece, 
— no,  I'm  not  for  these.  I  tell  you  that  the  entire  modernist 
movement  is  but  a  celebration  of  The  Black  Mass.  Crazy 
and  sane,  that  is  what  the  leaders  in  this  school  are  doing. 
Their  god  is  Anti-Christ;  their  ritual  destruction.  And  I 
do  not  believe  that  Christ,  all  merciful,  will  ever  say  to  the 
least  guilty  among  these — 'Absolvo  te.'  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Finally  Annan  said :  "On  your 
side  you  are  more  savage  than  I  on  mine.  I  am  no  mis- 
sionary  " 


158  E  R I  S 

*'I  am.  The  human  being  who  is  not  is  negligible.  I  tell 
you  that  beauty  is  good  and  right.  It  is  salvation.  It  is  the 
goal.  And  I  tell  you  that  the  use  of  evil  is  to  throw  beauty 
in  brighter,  more  perfect  relief.    That  is  its  only  use  in  art. 

"And  it  never  should  be  the  theme,  nor  bask  in  the  six)t- 
light,  nor  centre  the  composition.  All  its  arrows  point  in- 
ward to  that  one  divine  and  ultimate  spot — the  touch  of 
highest  value  in  Rembrandt's  canvasses — the  supreme  pin- 
point of  clarity  and  glory — Beauty — symmetrical,  flawless, 
eternal." 

As  they  left  the  club  together:  "Almost  thou  persuadest 
me,"  said  Annan  lightly. 

Parting,  they  shook  hands:  "No,  not  I,"  said  Coltfoot. 
"Some  sorrow  will  do  that.  ...  Or  some  woman." 

Annan  turned  down  Fifth  Avenue  much  amused. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EARLY  in  June  Rosalind  Shore  celebrated  the  365th  per- 
formance of  her  musical  comedy. 

She  got  Annan  on  the  telephone  just  as  he  was  leaving 
his  house  to  dine  wherever  fancy  suggested. 

"Harry  Sneyd  is  giving  a  supper  dance  for  me,"  she  ex- 
plained, "and  he  wants  a  bunch  of  names  that  will  look  well 
in  to-morrow's  papers.  Do  you  mind  coming,  Barry?  Or 
have  you  become  too  darned  great  to  let  the  public  suspect 
that  you  know  how  to  frivol?" 

"Pity  your  mother  didn't  spank  the  sarcasm  out  of  you 
while  she  was  getting  busy,"  he  retorted.  "Where  is  the 
frivolling  and  what  time?" 

"You  nice  boy !  It's  after  the  show  in  the  directors'  suite 
at  The  Looking  Glass.  Harry's  a  director  there,  also.  Mr. 
Shill  let  him  have  the  suite.  Thank  you  so  much,  Barry ;  I 
do  want  all  the  celebrities  I  can  get,  and  our  publicity  de- 
partment will  be  grateful  to  you." 

"Glad  you  feel  that  way,"  he  said  drily. 

"Ducky,  it  does  sound  like  a  poor  relation  touching  the 
Family  Hope ;  but  I  love  you  anyway  and  you  know  it." 

He  laughed,  hung  up,  and  went  his  way.  Only  the  florists 
at  the  great  hotels  remained  open  for  business.  At  one  of 
these  he  was  properly  robbed,  but  the  flowers  that  he  sent 
to  Rosalind  were  magnificent. 

He  joined  half  a  dozen  men  of  his  own  world  at  the 
Province  Club  and  made  one  of  a  group  at  dinner. 

Conversation  was  the  sort  of  big-town-small-talk  passing 
current  as  conversation  at  the  majority  of  such  clubs — 

159 


160  E  R I  S 

Wall  Street  tattle,  social  prattle,  golfing  week-ends,  summer 
plans. 

Somebody — Wilkes  Bruce — remarked  to  Annan  that  his 
aunt  was  in  town. 

The  prospect  of  seeing  her  cheered  him,  stirring  up  that 
ever  latent  perverse  humour  of  his,  with  the  prospect  of  an 
acrimonious  exchange  of  civilities. 

Not  that  Mrs.  Magnelius  Grandcourt  ever  received  her 
nephew  willingly;  but  twice  every  year  matters  concerning 
the  estate  had  to  be  discussed  with  him  personally. 

So  Annan  knew  that  before  she  took  herself  elsewhere  a 
summons  to  the  presence  would  arrive  for  him  at  No.  3 
Governor's  Place. 

She  possessed  a  horrible  house  in  town — a  caricature  of 
a  French  chateau — closed  most  of  the  year. 

In  the  depths  of  that  dim  and  over-upholstered  stronghold 
these  semi-annual  audiences  were  held.  They  resembled 
courts  of  justice,  his  aunt  sitting,  and  he  the  malefactor  on 
parole,  reporting  at  intervals  according  to  law.  And  he 
looked  forward  to  these  conferences  with  malicious  amuse- 
ment, if  his  aunt  did  not. 

After  dinner  he  played  cowboy  pool  with  Archie  Mallison 
and  Wilkes  Bruce,  winning  as  usual.  For  he  did  everything 
with  the  same  facility  that  characterised  his  easy  speech  and 
manners — accurate  without  effort,  naturally  a  technician, 
always  graceful. 

But  a  little  of  his  own  caste  went  a  long  way  with  Annan. 
Conversation  at  The  Province,  as  well  as  at  The  Patroons, 
bored  him  very  soon.  So,  having  neatly  disposed  of  Bruce 
and  Mallison,  he  retired  to  the  library — the  only  place  he 
cared  about  in  any  club  except  when  some  old  foozle  went  to 
sleep  there  and  snored. 

For  an  hour  he  dawdled  among  the  great  masters  of  writ- 
ten English,  always  curious,  always  charmed,  unconsciously 
aware  of  a  kinship  between  these  immortals  and  himself. 

For  perhaps  this  young  man  was  not  unrelated,  distantly, 


E  R  I  S  161 

to  that  noble  fellowship,  though  the  subtle  possibility  had 
never  entered  his  mind. 

So  he  dallied  among  pages  printed  when  writing  was  a 
fine  art — and  printing  and  binding,  too ;  and  about  midnight 
he  went  below,  put  on  his  hat,  and  betook  himself  to  The 
■Looking  Glass. 

In  the  amusement  district  the  tide  of  gaiety  was  still 
ebbing  with  the  usual  back-wash  toward  cabaret  and  mid- 
night show. 

The  Looking  Glass  was  dark  and  all  doors  closed,  but 
there  were  many  cars  in  waiting  and  a  group  of  gossiping 
chaufifeurs  around  the  private  entrance,  where  a  gilded  lamp 
burned. 

Through  this  entrance  he  sauntered;  a  lift  shot  him  up- 
ward;  he  disembarked  amid  a  glare  of  light  and  a  jolly 
tumult  of  string-music  and  laughter. 

Somebody  took  his  hat  and  stick  and  he  walked  into  the 
directors'  suite  of  The  Looking  Glass. 

There  were  a  lot  of  people  dancing  in  the  handsome  board- 
room— flowers,  palms,  orchestra — all  the  usual  properties. 

The  supper  room  adjoining  was  gay  with  jewels  and 
dinner-gowns,  clink  of  silver,  tinkle  of  glass,  speeding  of 
waiters  flying  like  black  shuttles  through  some  rainbow 
fabric  in  the  making. 

Near  the  door  a  girl — one  of  a  group — turned  as  he 
strolled  up. 

"Barry!"  she  exclaimed,  and  saluted  him  in  Rialto  fash- 
ion, with  both  arms  on  his  shoulders  and  a  typical  district 
kiss. 

"Thank  you  for  my  flowers,  ducky,"  added  Rosalind, 
"and  you're  a  darling  to  come.  Here's  Betsy,  by  the 
way " 

"Why,  Betsy!"  he  said,  taking  her  outstretched  hands, 
"when  did  you  arrive  from  the  Coast?" 

"Yesterday,  my  dear,  and  never  was  I  so  glad  to  see  this 
wretched  old  town.     To  hear  Calif ornians  talk  you'd  think 


16«  E  R I  S 

you  were  buying  a  ticket  to  the  Coast  of  Paradise.     But  I 

notice  the  Calif ornians  remain  here "     She  took  him 

by  both  arms :  "The  same  boy.    You  don't  look  great.    Do 
you  feel  very  great,  dear  ?" 

"Perhaps  His  Greatness  needs  food  to  look  the  part,** 
suggested  Rosalind.  "Don't  get  us  any,"  she  added,  as  he 
turned  to  pay  his  devoirs  to  the  others  in  the  group. 

He  shook  hands  with  Harry  Sneyd,  bowed  to  Wally  Craw- 
ford, encountered  the  mischievous  gaze  of  Nancy  Cassell, 
and  paid  his  respects  to  her  with  gay  cordiality. 

There  were  other  people,  but  the  flow  to  and  fro  between 
supper  and  dance  cut  them  off.  He  noticed  Leopold  Shill, 
very  shiny,  and  exchanged  a  perfectly  polite  salute  with  him. 
Beyond,  the  thinning  black  hair  and  sanguine  face  of  Albert 
SmuU  were  visible  amid  groups  continually  forming  and  dis- 
integrating. 

It  came  into  Annan's  mind  that  Eris  also  must  have  re- 
turned from  the  Coast ;  and  he  turned  and  made  the  inquiry 
of  Rosalind. 

"Why,  yes,  she's  here  somewhere." 

"Where?" 

"Probably  where  the  men  are  thickest,"  drawled  Rosalind. 
"If  you  see  a  large  crowd, — and  a  burgundy  flush, — that's 
the  suitors  of  Eris, — and  Albert  Smull ;  and  you'll  find  Eris 
in  the  centre  of  it  all." 

Annan  laughed  and  strolled  on.  For  Smull  he  had  no 
enthusiasm.  As  for  Eris,  when  he  thought  of  her  he  felt 
cordially  toward  her.  But  there  was  now  an  uneasy  and  in- 
creasing sense  of  his  own  neglect  to  subdue  any  spontaneous 
pleasure  in  meeting  her.  It  annoyed  him  to  feel  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  neglect.  Until  that  moment  he  had  not  felt 
any  particular  shortcoming. 

A  girl  he  knew  came  drifting  out  of  the  throng — one  of 
liis  many  and  meaningless  affinities.  They  always  were  glad 
to  see  him  after  the  storm  and  stress  of  the  verbal  love  affair. 
So  she  drifted  away  in  his  arms — one  of  the  recent  steps — 


E  R I  S  16» 

picked  up  by  him  without  effort — and  they  danced  the  thing- 
out. 

Some  man  took  her  off.  But  there  were  others — plenty — 
all  sorts.  He  danced  enough  to  amuse  him,  thinking  most  of 
the  time  about  his  new  story,  and  now  and  then  of  Eris. 

Several  times  the  ruddy  features  of  Smull  cut  his  rather 
hazy  line  of  vision;  but  he  didn't  discover  anybody  resem- 
bling Eris  in  the  vicinity. 

He  had  handed  his  latest  partner  over  to  Frank  Donnell, 
and  had  swung  on  his  heel  to  avoid  a  large  group  of  people. 
And  at  that  moment  he  saw  Eris. 

The  sheer  beauty  of  the  girl  startled  him,  and  it  was  an 
appreciable  moment  before  he  realised  that  her  grey  eyes 
were  encountering  his. 

Annan  seldom  reddened.  He  did  now.  He  was  not  cer- 
tain, either,  but  that  she  was  administering  a  cut  direct, 
because  there  was  no  recognition  in  the  grey  eyes,  no 
smile. 

There  were  a  number  of  men  standing  about  between 
them ;  he  hesitated  to  invite  the  full  snub  he  deserved.  Then 
he  saw  her  silently  disengage  herself  from  the  group  about 
her  and  start  directly  toward  him. 

That  galvanised  him  into  action — rather  brusquely — for 
he  brushed  a  few  stalwart  shoulders  as  he  caught  the  hand 
she  extended  in  both  of  his. 

"Can't  we  find  some  quiet  place "  she  said  unsteadily. 

He  drew  her  arm  through  his  and  they  made  their  way  in 
silence  across  the  floor  toward  a  vista  of  offices  now  banked 
with  palms  and  flowers  and  invaded  by  the  few  who  courted 
seclusion  and  each  other. 

A  girl  and  a  man  gave  them  an  unfriendly  look  as  they 
entered  the  last  of  the  offices,  and  presently  took  themselves 
off. 

Eris  glanced  absently  at  the  chairs  they  had  vacated,  then 
released  her  arm,  turned  and  walked  slowly  to  the  embrasure 
of  the  window. 


164  E  R I  S 

When  he  came  to  her  she  made  a  little  gesture; — ^he 
waited. 

After  a  while:  "I  couldn't  control  my  voice,"  she  said. 
...  "I  am  so  happy  to  see  you." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps,  speech  stuck  in  his 
glib  throat. 

She  said :  "I  wondered  if  you  were  going  to  be  here.  Are 
you  quite  well  ?    You  seem  so." 

"AndyouEris?" 

"Yes; — tired,  though." 

"You  are  successful.    I've  heard  that." 

"I  have  very  much  to  learn,  Mr.  Annan.  .  .  .  There 
seems  to  be  no  end  to  study.  .  .  .  But  there  is  no  other 
pleasure  or  excitement  comparable  to  it." 

"Are  you  still  hot  on  the  trail  of  Truth?"  he  ventured  with 
a  forced  smile. 

She  laughed  frankly :  "Yes,  and  do  you  know  that  hunting 
truth  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  popular  sport?"  Then,  more 
seriously:  "Of  what  value  is  anything  else,  Mr.  Annan? 
Why  isn't  truth  more  popular?  Could  you  tell  me 
why?" 

The  old,  remembered  cry  of  Eris — "Could  you  tell  me 
why?" — was  sounding  in  his  ears  again — the  same  wistful, 
familiar  question. 

If  Annan  had  now  regained  his  native  equanimity  it  was 
entirely  due  to  this  girl  who  had  not  even  deigned  to  admit 
any  awkwardness  in  their  encounter.  And  he  realised,  grate- 
fully, that  she  was  continuing  to  ignore  any  lesser  detail 
than  the  happy  fact  of  reunion. 

"So  that's  your  idea  of  happiness?"  he  said,  gratefully 
reassured. 

"It  always  was,    I  told  you  so  long  ago." 

"I  remember."  He  looked  at  her,  ashamed  and  sorry  that 
he  had  had  no  active  part  in  this  charming  fruition.  Or, 
rather,  it  was  as  yet  merely  a  delicate  promise  with  bios* 
soms  still  chastely  folded.    No  flower  yet. 


E  R I  S  165 

"It's  plain  enough,"  he  said,  "that  you've  never  lost  a 
moment  in  self -improvement  since  you  went  away  nearly  a 
year  ago." 

"Being  with  Betsy  taught  me  so  much.  And  Frank  Don- 
nell  is  so  wise  and  gentle.  .  .  .  But  you  began  it  all " 

"Began  what?"  he  demanded. 

"I  told  you  that  you  were  the  first  man  of  your  kind  I 
had  ever  met.  That  night — in  the  Park — it  was  just  exactly 
as  though  I  had  gone  to  sleep  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  and 
waked  up  possessed  of  every  faculty " 

"You're  loyal  to  the  point  of  obstinacy,"  he  interrupted. 
"You  owe  absolutely  nothing  to  me.  All  I  did  was  to  fail 
you-^— " 

"Please  don't  say  that,  Mr.  Annan ;  you — ^annoy  me  when 
you  do " 

"I  didn't  believe  in  you.    I  deserted  you " 


"Please — you  hurt  me — when  you  speak  that  way- 

"I  didn't  even  continue  to  write " 

"You  were  too  busy  with  important  things " 


"Eris!  Are  you  really  going  to  overlook  my  rotten  be- 
haviour ?'* 

They  both  had  become  nervously  excited,  although  their 
voices  were  low.  Her  protesting  hand  hesitated  toward  his 
arm;  his  fists  were  clenched  in  his  pockets, — effort  at  self 
restraint : 

"You're  so  square  and  decent,"  he  said.  "When  I  saw 
you  I  realised  what  a  rotter  I'd  been.  You  ought  to  have 
cut  me  dead  to-night '* 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  swift  intake  of  breath  and  her 
hovering  hand  a  moment  on  his  arm. 

After  a  long  silence:  "All  right,"  he  said  almost  grimly. 
He  looked  up,  laughed:  "I'm  yours,  Eris.  Everybody  else 
seems  to  be,  too." 

Her  face,  clearing,  flushed  swiftly,  and  she  gave  him  a 
confused  look. 

"I  shan't  tease,"  he  said, — ^back  on  the  old  footing  in  a 


166  E  R I  S 

twinkling,  " — ^but  you  do  seem  to  be  popular  with  people. 
Isn't  it  a  rather  agreeable  feeling?" 

"Yes.  ...  I    want   to    tell   you "      She   hesitated, 

laughed  hopelessly.  "I'm  so  excited,  Mr.  Annan,  I  don't 
know  how  to  begin.  Why,  the  things  I  have  to  tell  you — 
and  the  things  I  have  to  ask  you — would  take  a  year  to 
utter " 

"All  the  time  you've  been  away  ?"  he  inquired  gaily. 

"That  must  be  it.  Every  day  they  accumulated.  I 
needed  you.  .  .  ."  She  checked  herself,  breathless,  smiling, 
the  colour  bright  in  her  cheeks.  "All  you  have  done  and 
are  doing,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  "I  have  so  longed  to 
hear  about.  All  I  have  tried  to  do  I  was  crazy  to  tell  you 
about.  .  .  .  And  now — I  can't  think — remember " 

"We  must  make  another  engagement." 

"Please !  .  .  .  I  was  so  unhappy  about  the  other  one " 

"What  hour  can  you  give  me,  Eris?" 

To  give  had  been  his  perquisite  heretofore.  She  seemed 
to  so  consider  it,  still. 

"Could  you  spare  me  a  little  time  to-morrow  ?"  she  asked, 
almost  timidly. 

"Would  you  dine  with  me  ?" 

She  said  naively :  "Couldn't  we  see  each  other  before  to- 
morrow night  ?    It  seems  so  long " 

The  swift  charm  of  her  impatience  surprised  and  touched 
him.  Again  this  young  man  was  rapidly  losing  his  balance 
in  the  girl's  candour. 

"Whenever  you  care  to  see  me,"  he  said,  "I'll  come.  .  .  . 
Any  day,  any  hour." 

She  said,  with  surprise  and  emotion :  "You  are  very  kind 
to  me,  Mr.  Annan.    You  always  have  been " 

"It  is  you  who  are  kind.  You  seem  unconscious  of  your 
own  generosity.  Will  you  come  to  see  me,  or  shall  I  come 
to  you,  Eris  ?" 

"You  know,"  she  explained  with  happy  animation,  "I've 
taken  the  entire  floor  where  I  had  my  room  in  Jane  Street. 


E  R I  S  167 

It  would  be  quite  all  right  for  you  to  come." 

"Fine!"  he  exclaimed.     "Tea?" 

"Why — that's  not  very  early " 

"After  lunch,  then?" 

"You  could  come  to  breakfast,"  she  said  with  a  half  shy, 
half  laughing  glance.  "I  was  born  on  a  farm  and  I  rise  very 
early.    You  do,  too — I  remember " 

"You  friendly  girl !    You  bet  I'll  come !" 

"I  hate  to  waste  time  in  sleep,"  she  added,  still  shy  and 
smiling.  .  .  .  "What  do  you  like  for  breakfast,  Mr.  Annan? 
— Oh,  I  remember.    Mrs.  Sniffen  told  me " 

"You  surely  can't  recollect " 

"Yes,  I  do.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  forget  any- 
thing    that     happened     there?  .  .  .  You     breakfast     at 

eight "    She  laughed  with  sheer  delight :  "That  is  going 

to  be  wonderful,  Mr.  Annan — to  be  able  to  offer  you  break- 
fast in  my  own  apartment!" 

"And  we  lunch  at  the  Ritz  and  dine  at  my  house,"  he 
added. 

"Wonderful!  Wonderful!  And  I  can  accept,  because  I 
have — proper  clothes!  Isn't  it  perfectly  enchanting — the 
way  it  all  has  turned  out  ?" 

That  he  was  quite  conscious  of  the  enchantment  appeared 
plain  enough  to  people  who  chanced  to  enter  the  room  where 
they  stood  together  in  the  recess  of  the  open  window. 

Several  of  the  men  so  recently  bereaved  of  Eris  evinced 
an  inclination  to  hover  about  the  vicinity.  Once  or  twice 
Annan  was  aware  of  black  hair  and  ruddy  features  in  the 
offing — a  glimpse  of  Albert  Smull,  passing,  elaborately 
oblivious. 

"I  must  tell  you/'  said  Eris,  making  no  effort  to  conceal 
regret,  "that  there's  a  business  matter  I  shall  have  to  attend 
to  in  a  few  minutes.  Rosalind  insists  that  the  announce- 
ment be  made  this  evening.  It's  a  great  secret,  but  I'll  tell 
you :  I'm  going  to  have  my  own  company !" 

She  gave  him  her  hands,  laughing,  excited  by  his  aston- 


168  E  R I  S 

ishment  and  the  ardour  of  his  impetuous  congratula- 
tions. 

"Isn't  it  too  splendid!  I  can  scarcely  believe  it,  Mr. 
Annan.  But  in  our  last  picture  it  came  to  a  point  where 
Betsy  thought  we  were,  perhaps,  interfering  with  each  other 
— I  mean  that — that " 

"I  understand." 

Eris  flushed :  "Betsy  was  so  sweet  and  generous  about  it. 
But  I,  somehow,  realised  that  I'd  have  to  go.  .  .  .  It  was 
right  that  I  should.  .  .  .  And  I  had  a  talk  with  Frank  Don- 
nell.  ...  I  don't  know  who  told  Mr.  Smull  about  it,  but  he 
telegraphed  that  he  was  coming  out.  He  came  with  Mr. 
Shill.  .  .  .  That  was  how  it  happened.  Mr.  Smull  oflfered 
me  my  company.    I  was  thunderstruck,  Mr.  Annan " 

"You  would  be,  you  modest  child.     It's  splendid! " 


He  kept  continually  forcing  out  of  his  mind  the  fact  of 
Smull's  part  in  the  matter,  "It's  an  astonishing  tribute  to 
your  talent  and  character,  Eris.    Who  is  your  director?" 

"Mr.  Creevy." 

"Oh,  Ratford  Creevy?" 

"Yes.  Emil  Shunk  is  our  camera  man.  Mr.  Creevy 
brings  his  staff  with  him." 

Annan  had  his  opinion  of  Mr.  Creevy,  but  kept  it. 

"Well,"  he  repeated,  "that's  splendid,  Eris.  I'm  aston- 
ished,— ^you  wanted  me  to  be,  didn't  you? " 

She  laughed. 

" — I'm  astounded.  And  I'm  just  as  happy  as  you  are— 
you  nice,  fine  girl! — you  clever,  clever  kiddie! " 

They  were  laughing  without  reserve,  her  slim  hands  still 
clasped  in  his;  and  both  turned  without  embarrassment 
when  Rosalind  came  leisurely  behind  them. 

"Albert  has  been  chewing  his  moustache  for  half  an 
hour,"  she  drawled.    "Are  you  actually  spooning,  Eris?" 

"How  silly !    Does  Mr.  Smull  want  me  ?" 

"We're  all  set.  Leo  Shill  is  to  announce  it.  You're  to 
group  with  Albert  and  Ratty  Creevy  and  receive  bouquets. 


E  R I  S  169 

Come,  Eris ;  let  that  young  man's  educated  hands  alone '* 


Eris,  unconscious  until  then  that  Annan  still  retained  her 
hands,  withdrew  them  without  embarrassment.  Rosalind 
passed  a  beautifully  plump  arm  around  her  waist,  letting  her 
amused  glance  linger  on  Annan : 

"The  immaculate  lover,"  she  drawled,  "always  busy." 
And  to  Eris:  "You'll  like  him  better,  though,  after  it's  all 
over, — after  the  teething,  my  dear.    We  all  bite  on  Barry." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ANNAN  spent  the  entire  day  with  Eris ;  came  home  at 
midnight;  seated  himself  at  his  desk  where  his  work 
lay  in  inviting  disorder. 

But  there  was  no  more  chance  of  his  working  than  there 
was  of  his  sleeping. 

It  was  the  first  time  it  ever  had  happened.  He  could  not 
remember  an  instance  when  the  subtle  challenge  of  a  dis- 
ordered manuscript  had  been  declined  by  him. 

But  something  had  happened  to  this  young  man.  He  was 
in  no  condition  to  realise  what.  His  mind,  that  hitherto 
faithful  ally,  seemed  incompetent ;  trivial  thoughts  thronged 
its  corridors,  wandering  ideas,  irrelevant  impressions  drifted 
in  agreeable  rhythm. 

There  was  a  letter  from  his  aunt  on  his  desk.  He  tore  it 
open;  glanced  through  it  without  the  usual  grin;  laid  it 
aside. 

A  slight,  rather  vacant  smile  remained  on  his  lips :  he  kept 
moving  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  inhaling  the  odour  of  a 
white  clove-pink — one  of  a  cluster  that  had  stood  in  a  little 
rose-bowl  between  Eris  and  himself  at  breakfast. 

A  pencil,  dislodged,  rolled  over  his  pad  and  dropped  onto 
the  floor.    He  let  it  lie. 

Neither  work  nor  sleep  attracted  him.  From  the  oddly 
pleasant  sense  of  chaos  in  his  mind  always  something  more 
definite  and  more  pleasant  seemed  about  to  take  shape  and 
emerge. 

Whatever  it  was  had  delicately  saturated  him :  all  his  being 
seemed  permeated,  possessed  with  the  spell  of  it. 

Time  after  time  his  mind  mechanically  began  that  day 

170 


E  R I  s  m 

again,  drifted  through  the  sequence  of  events,  minute  by 
minute,  leading  him  at  length  to  where  he  now  was  seated, — 
but  only  to  recommence  again  from  the  beginning. 

About  two  o'clock  he  fell  asleep,  his  boyish  nose  touching 
the  clove-pink.  When  his  head  sagged  to  a  more  uncom- 
fortable position  he  awoke,  got  out  of  his  clothes  and  went 
to  sleep  in  the  proper  place. 

The  first  thing  he  did  after  he  awoke  was  to  unhook  the 
telephone  receiver: 

"Isityou,  Eris?" 

Then  a  perfectly  damning  sequence  of  solicitous  inquiries 
— the  regulation  and  inevitable  gamut  concerning  the  young 
lady's  health,  night's  repose,  condition  of  mind,  physical 
symptoms.  Followed  a  voluntary  statement  regarding  the 
day  before  and  his  intense  pleasure  in  it;  then  a  diffident 
inquiry,  and  a  hope  expressed  that  she,  also,  might  have 
found  the  day  not  insupportably  unpleasant; — surprise  and 
pleasure  to  learn  that  she,  too,  had  considered  the  day  "won- 
derful." 

"Could  I  see  you  to-day  ?"  he  asked. 

But  she  had  her  hands  full,  it  appeared. 

"I'll  try  to  get  away  after  dinner,"  she  said.  "Would  you 
telephone  about  nine-thirty,  Mr.  Annan  ?" 

"It's  a  long  time — all  right,  then !" 

"I  may  not  be  able  to  get  away,"  she  said. 

"Don't  let  me  spoil  your  evening " 

"I  had  ratJter  be  with  you." 

Fluency  seemed  no  longer  his:  "That's — that's  jolly  of 
you — awfully  nice  of  you,  Kris, — most  kind.  .  .  .  I'll  call 
your  apartment  at  nine-thirty,  if  I  may." 

"If  I  can't  get  away,"  she  said,  "could  we  see  each  other 
to-morrow  ?" 

"At  any  hour,  Eris !" 

"But — your  work " 

"That's  quite  all  right.    I  can  always  fit  that  in." 


17«  E  R  I  S 

"You  shouldn't.    You  should  fit  me  in " 

"Nonsense!" 

"But  /  shall  have  to  do  that,  too,  when  we  begin 
work " 

"I  understand  that.  When  may  I  see  you  to-morrow,  if 
you  can't  see  me  this  evening?" 

"Will  you  come  to  tea  ?" 

"Yes,  if  I  can't  come  earlier." 

She  laughed — a  distant,  gay  little  laugh — a  new  sound 
from  her  lips,  born  quite  unexpectedly  the  day  before  to 
surprise  them  both. 

"You  make  our  friendship  so  easy,"  she  said.  "You  quite 
reverse  conditions.  I'm  happy  and  grateful  that  you  arc 
coming  to  tea " 

His  unconsidered  and  somewhat  impetuous  reply  seemed 
to  confuse  Eris.    There  was  a  silence,  then : 

"That's  the  truth,"  he  repeated ;  " — it  is  a  privilege  to  be 
with  you." 

Her  voice  came,  a  little  wistful,  yet  humourously  incredu- 
lous: 

"You  say  such  kind  things,  Mr.  Annan.  .  .  .  Thank 
you." 

With  a  buoyant  sense  of  having  begun  the  day  right, 
Annan  took  a  noisy  bath,  ate  every  scrap  of  breakfast,  and 
sat  down  before  his  desk  in  lively  spirits,  when  Mrs.  Sniffen 
had  finished  with  his  quarters. 

"Xantippe,"  he  said  gaily,  "do  you  know  that  little  Miss 
Odell  has  become  a  very  clever  and  promising  professional?" 

"That  baby,  sir?" 

"That  child.    What  do  you  think  of  that,  Xantippe  ?" 

Mrs.  Sniffen's  countenance  became  grim : 

"I  'ope  that  God  may  guide  her,  Mr.  Barry, — for  there's 
devils  a-plenty  hunting  out  such  jobs." 

He  said:  "She's  turned  out  rather  a  wonderful  sort, 
Xantippe.     Sometimes  beginners  do  make  good  in  such  a 


E  R I  S  178 

short  time.  I've  known  one  or  two  instances.  I've  heard 
of  others.  Usually  there's  disaster  as  an  aftermath.  They're 
people  who  were  born  to  do  that  one  thing  once.  Nothing 
else.  They're  rockets.  Their  capacity  is  emptied  in  one 
dazzling  flare-up. 

"A  burnt-out  brain  remains.  .  .  .  There's  no  tragedy  like 
it.  .  .  .  Consistent  failure  is  less  cruel. 

"But  this  girl  isn't  like  that.  I'm  satisfied.  She's  merely 
starting.  She's  modest,  honest,  intelligent.  You  and  I  bear 
witness  to  her  courage.  And  there  seems  to  be  no  question 
about  her  talent.  ...  It  seems  to  be  one  of  those  instances 
where  circumstance  plays  second  fiddle  to  Destiny." 

He  picked  up  the  faded  clove-pink,  looked  at  it  absently, 
laid  it  upon  his  desk. 

"So  'that's  that,'  as  she  says  sometimes."  He  looked  up 
smilingly  at  Mrs.  Sniffen,  then  his  smile  degenerated  into  a 
grin :  "Aunt  Cornelia  is  in  town.    I'm'lunching  there." 

At  one  o'clock  Annan  sauntered  up  to  the  limestone  portal. 

"Hello,  Jennings,"  he  said  genially  to  a  large,  severe  man 
who  opened  the  door, — "the  three  most  annoying  things  in 
the  world  are  death,  hay-fever,  and  nephews.  The  last  are 
worst,  because  more  frequent.  Kindly  prepare  Mrs.  Grand- 
court." 

She  was  already  in  the  drawing-room.  She  offered  him 
the  celebrated  hand  once  compared  to  Queen  Victoria's.  He 
saluted  the  accustomed  pearl — the  black  one : 

"Madame  my  Aunt,  your  most  obedient " 

Her  butler.  Seaman,  announced  luncheon  with  the  rever- 
ence of  a  Second-Adventist.  Annan  offered  his  arm  to  the 
dumpy  old  woman. 

Only  her  thin,  high-bridged,  arrogant  nose  redeemed  her 
features  of  a  retired  charwoman.  Watery  eyes  inspected 
him  across  the  table;  a  little  withered  chin  tucked  between 
dewlaps,  a  sagging,  discontented  mouth,  a  mottled  skin, 
concluded  the  ensemble. 

White  lace  collar  and  cuffs  turned  over  the  black  gown 


174  E  R  I  S 

did  what  was  sartorially  possible  for  Mrs.  Magnelius  Grand- 
court.  Otherwise,  the  famous  string  of  cherry-sized  pearls 
dangled  to  what  should  have  been  her  waist. 

"It  appears,"  she  said,  "that  you  still  inhabit  your  alley." 

"Yes,  Barry-in-our-alley,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"When  are  you  going  to  move  to  a  suitable  neighbour- 
hood?" she  inquired  with  that  peculiar  pitch  of  tone  usually, 
in  her  sex,  indicative  of  displeasure. 

"I  like  to  be  quaint,"  he  explained,  grinning. 

After  a  pause  and  a  shift  to  the  next  course:  "I  don*t 
know  where  you  get  your  taste  for  squalour,"  she  said. 
"You  didn't  inherit  it." 

"Didn't  one  of  our  ancestors  haunt  bar-maids?"  he  en- 
quired guilelessly.  "I  always  understood  that  was  where  we 
acquired  our  bar-sinister " 

"Come,  Barry,"  she  said  sharply ;  sat  staring  at  him  in  a 
cold  rage  that  Seaman's  ears  should  have  been  polluted  by 
such  a  pleasantry. 

Annan's  interior  was  riotous  with  laughter  and  his  fea- 
tures crimsoned  with  it.  But  he  only  gazed  inquiringly  at 
his  aunt ;  and  the  wretched  incident  waned. 

They  went  into  the  library  after  luncheon.  A  secretary 
brought  the  necessary  papers. 

Annan's  was  a  cheerful  nature.  There  was  no  greed  in  it. 
In  all  questions,  that  might  properly  have  become  disputes 
concerning  joint  income  and  investment,  he  yielded  good 
humouredly  to  her. 

There  was  a  more  vulgar  streak  than  thrift  in  Mrs.  Mag- 
nelius Grandcourt.  The  majority  of  rich  are  infected  with  it. 

However,  family  matters  settled  to  her  satisfaction,  she 
seemed  inclined  to  a  more  friendly  attitude. 

"That  was  very  impudent  of  you  to  send  me  that  New 
York  Directory,"  she  said,  "but  I  suppose  you  intended  it  to 
be  a  pleasantry." 

"Why,  no,"  he  said  innocently,   "I  thought   it  would 


E  R  I  S  175 

gratify  you  to  discover  so  many  people  you  didn't  care  to 
know " 

"Barry !  I  see  nothing  humourous  in  it.  Do  you  think  the 
breaking  down  of  society  is  humorous?" 

"Is  it  breaking  down?" 

"Do  I  need  to  answer  you?  What  has  become  of  the  old 
barriers  that  kept  out  undesirables  ?  Once  there  was  a  soci- 
ety in  New  York.  Is  there  to-day?  No,  Barry; — only  a 
fragment  here  and  there. 

"Only  a  few  houses  left  where  we  rally.  This  house, 
thank  God,  is  one  of  them.  And  while  /  live  and  retain  my 
faculties,  I  shall  continue  to  dictate  my  visiting  list,  here  and 
in  Newport,  and  shall  properly  censor  it,  despite  the  unbe- 
coming mockery  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood " 

"Nonsense,  Aunt  Cornelia,  it's  only  in  fun,  not  ill-natured. 
I  can't  take  such  matters  solemnly.  Who  the  devil  cares 
who  you  are  to-day  ?  It's  what  you  do.  You're  no  longer  a 
rarity  in  an  uncouth  town.  There  are  too  many  like  you — 
quite  as  wealthy,  cultivated,  experienced — plenty  of  people 
■who  can  give  the  denizens  inhabiting  any  of  the  social  pud- 
dles a  perfectly  good  time. 

"There  isn't  any  society.  There  never  has  been  a  real  one 
since  Washington  was  President.  What  passed  for  it  you 
helped  boss  very  cleverly.  But  it  gradually  swelled  and 
burst — like  one  of  those  wobbly  stars — scattered  into  a  lot 
of  brilliant  little  fragments,  each  a  perfectly  good  star  in 
itself " 

"What  you  say  is  utterly  absurd,"  interrupted  his  aunt, 
wrathfully.  "By  tradition  there  is  and  can  be  only  one 
society  in  America.  Its  accepted  rendezvous  is  in  New 
York;  its  arbiters  are  so  by  birth.  Theirs  is  an  inherited 
trust.  They  are  its  censors.  I  shall  never  violate  what  I 
was  bom  to  respect  and  uphold." 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  suppose  you  really  consider 
me  a  renegade  and  a  low  fellow  because  I  entertain  the  public 
with  my  stories." 


176  E  R  I  S 

"A  public  entertainer  has  his  proper  place,  Barry/* 

"Sure.  On  the  doorstep.  That's  where  we  once  were 
told  to  sit — authors,  players,  painters — the  whole  job-lot  of 
us.  Now  we  prefer  it,  although  since  your  youth  society 
welcomes  anybody  that  can  amuse  it.  We  go  in,  now  and 
then.  But  it's  better  fun  outside.  So  I'm  going  to  sit  there 
and  tell  my  stories  to  the  hoi-poUoi  as  they  pass  along.  If 
what  you  consider  society  wishes  to  listen  it  can  stick  its 
head  out  of  the  window." 

"It  is  amazing  to  me,"  she  said,  staring  at  him  out  of 
watery  eyes,  "how  utterly  common  my  brother's  son  can  be. 
I  can  not  understand  it,  Barry.  And  you  are  not  alone  in 
this  demoralization.  Young  people  everywhere  are  infected. 
Only  a  week  or  two  ago  I  met  Elizabeth  Bljrthe  in  California. 
She  was  painted  a  perfectly  ghastly  colour  in  broad  day- 
light. Elizabeth  Blythe — the  daughter  of  Courtlandt  Blythe, 
a  painted,  motion-picture  actress!" 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  control  his  laughter. 

"She  told  me  that  you  snubbed  her,"  he  said.  "But  you 
don't  seem  to  be  consistent.  Aunt  Cornelia.  I  hear  that 
you've  been  civil  and  kind  to  another  actress.  I  mean  Eris 
Odell." 

"Do  you  know  her  ?"  inquired  his  aunt  calmly. 

"I've  met  her." 

Mrs.  Grandcourt  remained  silent  for  a  while,  her  pale 
eyes  fixed  on  her  nephew. 

"That  girl's  grandmother  was  my  beloved  comrade  in 
boarding  school,"  she  said  slowly.  "We  shared  the  same 
room.  Her  name  was  Jeanne  d'Espremont.  Her  grand^ 
mother  was  that  celebrated  Countess  of  the  time  of  Louis 
XV.  .  .  .  They  were  Louisiana  Creoles.  Her  blood  was  as 
good  as  any  in  France.  Probably  that  means  nothing  to  a 
modern  young  man.  ...  It  meant  something  to  me.  .  .  . 
I  shouldn't  have  wished  to  love  a  nobody  as  I  loved  Jeanne 
d'Espremont." 

Mrs.  Grandcourt  bent  her  head  and  looked  down  at  her 


E  R  I  S  177 

celebrated  Victorian  hands.  Pearls  bulged  on  the  tiny,  fat 
fingers. 

"Jeanne  ran  away,"  she  said.  "She  married  the  son  of  a 
planter.  His  family  was  unimpeachable,  but  he  looked  like  a 
fox.  When  he  drank  himself  to  death  she  went  on  the 
stage. 

"She  had  a  baby.  I  saw  it.  It  looked  like  a  female  fox. 
Jeanne  died  when  the  girl  was  sixteen.  ...  I'd  have  taken 
her, " 

Presently  Annan  asked  why  she  hadn't  done  so. 

"Because,"  said  his  aunt,  "she  married  a  boy  who  peddled 
vegetables  the  day  after  the  funeral.    His  name  was  Odell." 

"Oh!    Was  he  the  father  of  Eris?" 

"He  was.  And  is.  .  .  .  What  an  astonishing  reversion 
to  the  lovely,  aristocratic  type  of  her  grandmother.  ...  I 
encountered  her  by  accident.  She  was  with  Elizabeth 
Blythe,  but  she  was  not  painted.  ...  I  assure  you,  Barry, 
it  was  a  severe  shock  to  me.  She  is  the  absolute  image  of  her 
grandmother.  .  .  .  She  startled  me  so.  ...  I  never  was 
emotional.  .  .  .  But — I  could  scarcely  speak — scarcely  find 
my  voice — to  ask  her.  .  .  .  But  I  knew.  The  girl  was 
Jeanne  d'Espremont,  alive." 

After  a  moment:  "Did  you  find  her  interesting?"  he 
asked. 

"She  has  all  the  charm  and  intelligence  of  her  grand- 
mother. .  .  .  And  all  her  lovely  appeal.  And  her  fatal 
obstinacy." 

"Obstinacy?'* 

"Yes.  ...  I  told  her  about  her  grandmother.     I  asked 

her  to  give  up  her  profession  and  come  to  me "     Mrs. 

Grandcourt's  features  grew  red: — "I  offered  to  stand  her 
sponsor,  educate  her  properly,  give  her  the  position  in  the 
younger  set  to  which  her  blood  entitled  her.  ...  I  offered 
to  endow  her,  Barry.  ...  I  think  now  you  understand  how 
I  loved  her  grandmother." 

The  idea  of  his  aunt  parting  willingly  with  a  penny  so 


178  E  R  I  S 

amazed  and  entranced  the  young  man  that  he  merely  gazed 
at  her  incapable  of  comment. 

His  aunt  rose, — signal  that  the  audience  was  ended.  An- 
nan got  up. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  she  declined  to  give  up  her 
profession  for  such  a  prospect?" 

"Not  only  that,"  replied  his  aunt,  getting  redder,  "but  she 
refused  to  accept  a  dollar.  .  .  .  And  she  hasn't  a  penny  ex- 
cept her  salary.  That  is  like  her  grandmother,  never  per- 
mitting a  favour  that  she  could  not  return,  .  .  .  Jeanne 
was  poor,  compared  to  me,  Barry — my  little  comrade,  Jeanne 
d'Espremont.  ...  I  loved  her.  .  .  .  dearly.  .  .  ." 

Annan  coolly  put  both  arms  around  his  aunt  and  kissed 
her — a  thing  that  had  not  occurred  since  he  was  in  college. 

"I'll  drop  in  for  tea  before  you  beat  it  to  Newport,"  he 
said.  "Then  you  tell  me  some  more  about  Jeanne  d'Espre- 
mont." 

He  gave  her  another  hearty  smack  and  went  out  gaily, 
leaving  Mrs.  Magnelius  Grandcourt  with  glassy,  astonished 
eyes,  and  a  litde,  selfish,  tucked-in  mouth  that  was  slightly 
quivering. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

nPHE  day  was  warm  enough  to  be  uncomfortable.  Except 
-*-  in  recesses  of  parks,  New  York  is  never  fragrant. 
Once  it  was — when  the  odour  of  lindens  filled  the  Broad- 
Way  from  the  Fort  to  St.  Paul's.  Wild  birds  sang  in  every 
street.  Washington  was  President.  Green  leaves  and  scent 
and  song  are  gone  where  "The  Almond  Tree  shall  flourish," 
deep  planted  in  the  heart  of  man. 

As  far  as  perfume  is  concerned,  neither  the  eastward 
avenues  nor  cross-streets  suggested  Araby  to  Annan.  He 
carried,  as  usual,  a  large  pasteboard  box  full  of  flowers. 

Jane  Street  runs  west  out  of  Greenwich  Avenue.  Shabby 
red  brick  buildings  with  rusty  fire-escapes,  lofts,  stables,  a 
vista  of  swarming  tenements  through  which  runs  a  sagging 
pavement  set  with  pools  of  water — and,  on  the  south  side, 
half  a  dozen  rickety  three-story-and-basement  houses — this 
is  Jane  Street. 

The  little  children  of  the  poor  shrilled  and  milled  about 
him  as  he  threaded  his  way  among  push-cart  men  and  trucks 
and  mounted  the  low  stoop  of  the  house  where  Eris  lived. 

It  seemed  clean  enough  inside  as  he  climbed  the  narrow 
stairs,  manoeuvering  his  big  box  full  of  flowers. 

He  could  hear  her  negro  maid-of -all-work  busy  in  the 
kitchen  as  he  knocked, — hear  her  call  out  gaily:  "Miss  Eris! 
Miss  Eris,  somebody's  knockin'  an'  I  can't  leave  mah 
kitchen " 

Came  the  light  sound  of  feet  dancing  along  the  hall,  the 
door  jerked  open  in  his  face,  sudden  vision  of  grey  eyes  and 
bobbed  chestnut  hair;  the  swift  bright  smile: 

179 


180  E  R  I  S 

"Good  morning!" — her  offered  hand,  cool  and  fresh  in 
his.  "More  flowers?  But  yesterday's  flowers  are  perfectly 
fresh!     Thank  you,  Mr.  Annan,  so  much " 

She  was  the  most  engaging  person  to  give  things  to— 
anything,  no  matter  how  trivial — and  her  delight  and  child- 
like lack  of  restraint  were  refreshing  reward  to  a  young 
man  accustomed  to  feminine  sophistication. 

Any  sort  of  a  package  excited  her,  and  she  lost  no  time 
in  opening  it. 

Now,  with  her  arms  full  of  iris  and  peonies,  she  exclaimed 
her  delight  again,  again  made  her  personal  gratitude  a 
charming  reward  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  gift. 

"If  you'll  turn  on  the  water  in  the  bath-tub,"  she  said, 
"I'll  lay  them  there  until  I  can  find  something  to  put  them 
in. 

This  was  the  usual  procedure.  He  had  sent  her  a  lot  of 
inexpensive  glass  bowls,  jars  and  vases.  He  now  gave  the 
flowers  a  bath  while  she  ran  to  the  pantry  and  came  back 
with  half  a  dozen  receptacles. 

Together  they  arranged  the  flowers  and  carried  them  into 
the  three  rooms  of  the  little  apartment  which,  already,  was 
blossoming  like  a  Persian  garden.  And  all  the  while  their 
desultory  chatter  continued — fragments  left  from  their  last 
parting — gossip  resumed,  unasked  questions  held  over  and 
now  remembered,  punctuated  by  the  girl's  unspoiled  pleasure 
in  every  blossom  that  she  chose  and  placed. 

Breakfast  was  ready  when  they  were — the  sort  of  break- 
fast  she  remembered  he  liked. 

Nothing  about  Eris  seemed  to  have  been  spoiled — least  of 
all  her  appetite.  He  thought  it  charmingly  childish,  and  it 
always  amused  him.  Besides,  the  girl's  lovely  freshness  in 
the  morning  always  fascinated  him.  Only  children  turned 
unblemished  faces  to  the  morning  in  New  York. 

Together  in  the  cool  living-room,  after  breakfast,  they 
settled  for  a  happy,  busy  morning — the  business  of  exchang- 


ERIS  181 

ing  thoughts,  including  vast  material  for  discussion  accu- 
mulated over  night. 

After  a  year's  absence,  and  in  the  sudden  sun-burst  of 
their  reunion,  Eris  was  venturing  more  and  more  in  the  art 
of  conversation.  With  Annan,  diffidence,  shyness  were 
vanishing  in  their  new  and  happy  intimacy.  She  was  learn- 
ing to  withhold  from  him  nothing  that  concerned  the  things 
of  the  mind.  Its  pleasures  she  hastened  to  surrender  to 
him ;  its  perplexities  she  offered  him  with  a  wistful  candour 
that  constantly  was  stirring  depths  within  him  hitherto 
obscurely  stagnant. 

All  these — her  personality,  the  physical  loveliness  of  the 
girl — were  subtly  obsessing  him,  usurping  intellectual  rou- 
tine when  he  was  away,  crowding  other  thoughts,  colouring 
his  mental  process,  interfering  with  its  clarity  when  he 
worked — interrupting  charmingly — as  though  her  light 
touch  on  his  sleeve  had  arrested  his  pen. 

She  was  asking  him  now  about  the  progress  of  his  new 
novel:  he  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  and  he  looked  up  over 
the  burning  match : 

"It's  an  inert  lump,"  he  said.  "I  come  in  and  give  it  a 
kick  but  it  doesn't  even  squirm." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  concerned. 

He  lighted  his  cigarette.  There  was  a  mischievous  glim- 
mer in  his  eyes : 

"Probably  it's  sulking  because  I'm  having  a  better  time 
with  you." 

"You're  not  serious!" 

"Yes,  I  am.  That  fool  of  a  novel  is  jealous.  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  it,  Eris." 

"If  I  believed  that,"  she  said  with  a  troubled  smile,  "I'd 
not  go  near  you." 

"That  would  be  murderous,  Eris." 

"How?' 

"Why,  I'd  go  home  and  kick  that  novel  to  death,'* 

Her  light  laughter  was  not  wholly  free  of  concern : 


18«  E  R  I  S 

"I've  thought  sometimes,"  she  said,  "that  perhaps  our 
mornings  together  might  take  a  httle  of  the  freshness  out 
of  you,  Mr.  Annan.  .  .  .  Take  something  from  your  work. 
.  .  .  You're  so  nice  about  it — but  you  mustn't  let  me " 

"Nonsense.  Even  if  it  were  true  I'm  not  going  to  let 
anything  spoil  our  intellectual "  he  hesitated, — "honey- 
moon," he  added  with  the  faintest  malice  in  his  laugh. 

"What  a  delightful  idea!"  she  exclaimed.  "That's  what 
this  week  has  been,  hasn't  it! — on  my  part,  anyway.  But 
of  course  you  don't  feel " 

"I  do,  madam.  Do  you  acknowledge  our  intellectual  al- 
liance ?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"That  settles  it.  You  can't  honeymoon  by  yourself,  can 
you?" 

She  thought  him  delightfully  ridiculous.  But  a  faint  mis- 
giving persisted : 

"About  your  novel,"  she  began, — ^and  he  laughed  and 
said : 

"Well,  what  about  it?'* 

"When  will  you  begin  again  ?" 

"How  long  will  our  honeymoon  last?" 

"That  isn't  fair " 

"Yes,  it  is.    How  long,  Eris?" 

She  laughed  at  his  absurdity:  "Forever,  with  me,"  she 
said.    "So  you  might  as  well  begin  work  now  as  later." 

"Hasn't  our  honeymoon  interfered  a  little  with  your 
work?"  he  asked  lightly. 

"Of  course  not.  It's  been  the  most  stimulating  of  tonics, 
Mr.  Annan." 

"Well,  it's  overstimulated  me,  perhaps.  I  can't  keep  my 
feet  on  the  earth, — I  float " 

"You're  lazy!" 

"Blissfully,  Eris.  .  .  .  Eris!  .  .  .  Eris,  immortal  god- 
dess of  eternal  discord.  .  .  .  Who  gave  you  that  lovely, 
ominous  name?" 


E  R  I  S  18S 

"The  ironical  physician  who  brought  me  into  the  world, 
I  believe.  ...  I  believe  I  was  well  named." 

"You  don't  create  discord." 

"I  seem  to ;  from  birth,"  she  said  absently.  She  bent  over 
a  mass  of  rose-scented  white  peonies,  inhaling  the  slightly 
aromatic  perfume. 

Watching  her,  he  said :  "It's  hard  for  me  to  realise  that 
you've  ever  had  troubles." 

"It's  hard  for  me,  too,"  she  brushed  her  lips  against  the 
delicate,  crisp  petals.  "Troubles,"  she  said,  "become  unreal 
when  one's  mind  remains  interested.  ...  I  can't  even  re- 
member how  it  feels  to  be  unhappy.  ...  A  busy  mind 
forgets  unessentials  like  trouble." 

He  said:  "You're  rather  amazing  at  times,  do  you  know 
it?" 

"Why?" 

He  smiled :  "Also,"  he  said,  "there's  an  Incongruity  about 
this  honeymoon  of  ours,  Eris." 

"Where,  Mr.  Annan?" 

"Between  your  lips  and  mine — ^when  you  say  *Mr.  An- 
nan' and  I  answer,  'Eris.'  And  on  our  honeymoon,  too,"  he 
added  gravely. 

Her  laughter  was  a  little  confused. 

"It  seems  natural  for  me  to  call  you  Mr.  Annan.  One  is 
not  likely  to  think  familiarly  of  famous  people " 

"Is  it  a  horrible  sort  of  bourgeois  respect  for  the  mystery 
of  my  art,  Eris?" 

She  abandoned  herself  to  laughter  as  his  features  grew 
gloomier. 

"You  are  funny,"  she  said,  "but  one's  first  impressions 
of  people  are  not  easily  altered.  .  .  .  Would  you  wish  me  to 
call  you — Barry?" 

"If  consistent  with  your  commendable  and  proper  awe  of 
me. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  was  unable  to  control  her 
laughter.    Then  a  moment's  hesitation,  bright-eyed,  flushed : 


184  E  R  I  S 

"Barry,"  she  said,  like  a  child  plucking  courage  from 
embarrassment. 

She  had  some  books  to  show  him  from  a  list  she  had 
asked  him  to  make  after  one  of  their  conferences  on  self- 
improvement. 

They  went  over  them  together,  she  ardently  intent  on  the 
unread  pages,  he  conscious  of  her  nearness ;  the  faint,  warm 
perfume  of  her  bent  head. 

Her  mantel-clock  struck  and  she  looked  up  incredulously. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  go." 

"It  can't  be  noon,  can  it?" 

"I'll  drive  you  to  the  studio." 

She  called  :  "Hattie !    Have  you  put  up  my  limch  ?" 

"All  ready.  Miss  Eris,  honey !" 

There  was  a  silence,  Eris  gazing  absently  at  the  outrage- 
ous mantel-clock,  Arman's  eyes  on  her  face. 

She  drew  a  long,  even  breath:  "Time — ^and  its  hours — 
like  a  flight  of  bullets.  .  .  .  When  can  you  come  again  ?" 

"Any  day — any  hour  you  can  give  me " 

"No.  .  .  .  You  will  begin  work  again,  won't  you?"  She 
turned  toward  him. 

"I  can't,  yet." 

"Why?" 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  so  preoccupied  with  you." 

"But — that  isn't  possible!"  She  seemed  so  frankly  per- 
plexed and  disturbed  that  he  said : 

"No,  that  isn't  the  reason.  ...  I  don't  know  what 
it  is." 

"Are  you  tired,  perhaps  ?"  she  asked  with  a  winning  con- 
cern in  her  voice,  that  now  always  seemed  to  stir  within  him 
those  vague  depths  hitherto  unsuspected. 

Her  mantel-clock  tinkled  the  quarter-hour. 

They  both  looked  up  at  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  must  go  to  your  work." 

"It's  annoying,  isn't  it?" 


E  R  I  S  186 

"It's  the  way  I  feel  about  my  work,  too,"  he  said.  "I'd 
rather  be  with  you," 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  notice  the  analogy.  Then  she 
turned  and  her  face  flushed  in  comprehension. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Then  she  rose,  went  to 
her  bedroom,  pulled  on  her  hat,  and  came  slowly  out,  not 
looking  at  him. 

As  she  moved  toward  the  door  his  hand,  lightly,  then  his 
arm  detained  her,  drew  her  to  him  face  to  face,  held  her  in 
slightest  contact. 

There  was  a  damp  sweetness  to  her  mouth  as  he  kissed  it. 
She  did  not  change  colour, — there  was  no  emotion.  Smooth, 
cool,  her  face  touched  his — softly  cool  her  relaxed  hand 
that  he  took  into  his. 

He  looked  into  grey  eyes  that  looked  back.  He  kissed  a 
fresh  mouth  that  yielded  like  a  flower  but  did  not  quiver. 

Released,  she  stood  apart,  slender,  still,  not  aloof,  nor 
altered  visibly  by  the  moment's  intimacy. 

The  little  clock  struck  the  half  hour. 

He  came  to  her,  drew  her  head  back  against  his  face. 

"You'll  have  to  go,*'  he  said.  "Will  you  let  me  drive  you 
up  to  the  studio  ?    We'll  have  time." 

She  nodded;  they  went  slowly  to  the  door,  down  to  the 
hot  street  in  silence. 

On  Greenwich  Avenue,  near  the  new  theatre,  still  in 
process  of  building,  they  found  a  taxi. 

When  they  descended  at  the  studio  she  was  just  on  time. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  not  oflFering  him  her  hand. 

"To-morrow,  Eris?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't.    I'm  called  for  ten  o'clock." 

"In  the  evening,  then?" 

"I'm  dining  with  Mr.  Smull." 

"Could  you  lunch  with  me  the  day  after  that?" 

"I'm  sorry." 

A  pause :  "Are  you  offended?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 


186  E  R I  S 

She  looked  up,  slightly  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  seem  very  anxious  to  see  me  again,"  he  added, 
forcing  a  smile. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  girl  he  read  neither  response  nor  any 
comment. 

"I  won't  detain  you  now,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  you  seem 
to  be  unable  to  see  me  soon." 

"I  hope  you  will  feel  like  working  soon,"  she  said  quietly. 

"I'll  begin  in  a  day  or  so.  .  .  .  Are  you  free  day  after 
to-morrow,  at  any  time  ?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Could  you  come  to  dinner?" 

His  features  altered  swiftly:  "You  charming,  generous 
girl!    Of  course  I'll  come " 

"Good-bye,"  she  nodded,  and  turned  away  into  the  portal 
where  the  door-keeper  on  duty  stood  watching  them. 


CHAPTER   XX 

T^  XCEPT  for  one  disquieting  symptom,  Amian  had  no 
-*--'  reason  to  suppose  that  his  budding  affair  with  Kris 
was  to  develop  and  terminate  differently  from  other  agree- 
able interludes  in  his  airy  career. 

That  symptom  was  a  new  one — an  odd  disinclination  to 
work  because  his  mind  was  preoccupied  with  a  girl. 

No  other  tender  episodes  in  this  young  man's  career  had 
interfered  with  his  creative  ability.  On  the  contrary,  they 
had  stimulated  it 

Always  he  had  taken  such  incidents  gaily;  always  he  re- 
mained receptive,  not  seeking;  the  onus  of  initiative  equally 
shared;  the  normal  end  a  mutual  enlightenment,  not  too 
tragic,  and  with  the  germ  of  future  laughter  always  latent, 
even  quickening  under  tears. 

There  never  had  been  any  passion  in  these  affairs — not 
on  his  part  anyway — unless  a  passion  for  the  analysis  of 
reactions  counted,  and  a  passionate  desire  to  comprehend 
beauty,  physical  and  intellectual;  its  multiple  motives,  re- 
sponsibiUties,  and  penalties. 

Partly  experimental,  partly  sympathetically  responsive, 
always  tenderly  curious,  this  young  man  drifted  gratefully 
through  the  inevitable  episodes  to  which  all  young  men  are 
heir. 

And  something  in  him  always  transmuted  into  ultimate 
friendship  the  sentimental  chaos,  where  comedy  and  tragedy 
clashed  at  the  crisis. 

The  result  was  professional  knowledge.  Which,  how- 
ever, he  had  employed  rather  ruthlessly  in  his  work.     For 

187 


188  E  R I  S 

he  resolutely  cut  out  all  that  had  been  agreeable  to  the 
generations  which  had  thriven  on  the  various  phases  of 
virtue  and  its  rewards.  Beauty  he  replaced  with  ugliness; 
dreary  squalor  was  the  setting  for  crippled  body  and  de- 
formed mind.  The  heavy  twilight  of  Scandinavian  insanity 
touched  his  pages  where  sombre  shapes  born  out  of  Jewish 
Russia  moved  like  anachronisms  through  the  unpolluted 
sunshine  of  the  New  World. 

His  were  essays  on  the  enormous  meanness  of  mankind — 
mean  conditions,  mean  minds,  mean  aspirations,  and  a  little 
mean  horizon  to  encompass  all. 

Out  of  his  theme,  patiently,  deftly,  ingeniously  he  ex- 
tracted every  atom  of  that  beauty,  sanity,  inspired  imagina- 
tion which  makes  the  imperfect  more  perfect,  creates  better 
than  the  materials  permit,  forces  real  life  actually  to  assume 
and  be  what  the  passionate  desire  for  sanity  and  beauty 
demands. 

For  we  become,  visibly,  what  the  passionate  purpose  of 
the  strongest  among  us  demands.  Bodies  and  minds  alter 
in  the  irresistible  demand  for  beauty  and  sanity. 

It  is  the  fixed,  inexorable  aspiration  of  the  strong  that 
has  moved  mankind  out  of  its  own  natal  ugliness — so  far 
upon  the  long,  long  journey  toward  sanity,  beauty,  and  the 
stars. 

The  old,  old  story:  beauty  is  obvious  and  becomes  trite: 
the  corruption  from  whence  it  sprung  is  the  only  interest. 
Not  the  flower  but  the  maggots  in  the  manure  which 
nourishes  it;  not  symmetry,  but  the  causes  that  deform  it; 
not  sanity  but  the  microbes  which  undermine  it. 

Shadows  everywhere  framing  a  black  abyss  where,  deep 
in  obscurity,  cause  and  effect  writhe  endlessly  like  two  great 
worms.  .  .  . 

And  he  became  uneasy  and  uncomfortable  and  perplexed 
because  he  seemed  to  be  disinclined  to  continue  work. 

Eris  was  interfering.     The  damp  sweetness  of  her  mouth, 


E  R I S  1S9 

her  cool  fresh  body,  the  still  clarity  of  gray  eyes,  hands 
that  lay  in  his  hghtly  as  dawn-chilled,  flowers.  .  .  . 

Neither  intention  of  mind  and  pen — nor  even  effort 
where,  hitherto,  inspiration  and  mechanics  had  so  suavely 
co-ordinated — seemed  to  replace  him  and  reassure  him  in 
that  easy  security  from  whence,  hitherto,  he  had  inspected 
mankind. 

An  indefinable  subconsciousness  was  becoming  a  restless- 
ness shared  by  mind  and  body.  And  it  finally  set  him  adrift 
from  club  to  avenue — ^trivial  resources  of  those  who  depend 
upon  externals  for  occupation. 

Never  before  had  Annan  been  at  loss  to  know  how  to 
entertain  his  mind.  He  had  been  an  amusing  host  to 
himself.  Now,  for  the  first  time  he  was  aware  of  a  sort 
of  obscure  impatience  with  the  entertainment.  Not  that 
his  was  becoming  the  sordid  state  of  mind  of  the  time- 
killer — ^most  contemptible  of  unconscious  suicides  and 
slowest  of  any  to  enter  that  meaningless  void  for  which 
such  human  phantoms  are  fitted. 

But  it  seemed  that  something  was  lacking  to  make  self- 
entertainment  worth  while.  Exactly  what  this  was  he  did 
not  know.  There  was  effort  now  where  none  ever  had 
been.  And  that  effort  was  the  initiative  of  a  mind  seeking, 
for  the  first  time,  its  complement,  vaguely,  blindly  irritated 
by  its  own  incompleteness. 

He  went  to  see  his  aunt,  but  she  wasn't  very  glad  to  see 
him. 

The  reason  he  called  on  her  was  to  talk  about  Eris,  but 
Mrs.  Grandcourt  bluntly  inquired  what  his  interest  might 
be  in  an  actress,  and  suggested  that  he  mind  his  business 
and  try  to  foregather  with  women  of  his  own  caste. 

"Isn't  she?"  he  asked  rather  rashly. 

But  she,  old,  wise,  disillusioned,  and  with  a  sort  of  weary 
comprehensic«i  of  men,  made  it  plain  that  the  grand- 
daughter of  Jeanne  d'Espremont  concerned  herself  alone. 


190  E  R  I  S 

As  he  was  taking  his  leave: 

"I  can  imagine,"  she  remarked,  "nothing  as  contemptible 
as  any  philandering  with  this  child  by  any  man  of  my 
race." 

He  went  out  with  that  in  his  ear. 

It  bored  him  all  day.  Finally  it  interested  him.  Because 
that  is  exactly  what  would  have  happened  in  one  of  his 
own  stories 

Abruptly  he  was  conscious  that  it  was  happening.  That 
this  had  to  do  with  his  restlessness.  That  possibly  it  was 
desire  to  see  this  girl  which  was  disturbing  him. 

He  realised,  now,  that  he  wanted  to  see  Eris;  was  im- 
patient at  delay.  Well,  that  was  interesting  anyway. 
And,  now  that  the  possible  cause  of  discomfort  seemed 
clearer,  he  decided  to  examine  and  analyse  it  coolly,  pro- 
fessionally. .  .  . 

Toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  dead  tired,  he  gave 
it  up.  The  cause  of  restlessness  still  abided  with  him.  He 
fell  asleep,  weary  of  visualisation — young  eyes,  crystal-grey, 
that  told  him  nothing,  answered  nothing — eyes  virginal, 
imaware,  immaculate,  incorruptible. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Annan  arrived  at  the  Jane  Street  apartment, 
Eris  had  just  telephoned  Hattie,  the  negro  maid,  that 
she  had  been  detained  at  the  studio ;  would  be  late ;  and  to 
say  this  to  Mr.  Annan, 

So  constantly  yet  unconsciously  during  the  two  days' 
separation  had  he  visualised  this  meeting,  pictured  it  to  the 
least  detail,  that  this  slight  delay  in  realisation  tightened  a 
nervous  tension  of  which  he  had  been  aware  all  day. 

It  was  rather  ridiculous ;  he  had  seen  her  only  two  days 
before.  It  had  seemed  much  longer.  Also,  knowledge  of 
her  dinner  engagement  with  Albert  Smull  had  not  quieted 
his  impatience.  But  there  had  been  nothing  to  do  about  it 
except  to  send  her  fresh  roses  and  a  great  sheaf  of  lilies. 
Over  the  telephone  he  told  Hattie  to  place  these  in  her  bed- 
room before  she  returned. 

So  now  he  picked  up  the  evening  paper  in  the  little  living 
room  and  composed  himself  to  wait. 

The  culinary  clatter  of  Hattie  in  the  kitchen  came  to  him 
fitfully;  shrill  voices  from  ragged  children  at  play  in  the 
sunset-flooded  street;  the  grinding  roar  of  motor  trucks 
herded  like  leviathans  toward  their  west-side  corrals;  the 
eternal  jar  and  quiver  of  the  vast,  iron  city.  Otherwise, 
silence;  a  heated  stillness  in  the  isolated  abode  of  Eris, 
"Daughter  of  Discord" ;  the  subdued  breath  of  his  roses  in 
the  air,  which  glimmered  with  gilded  sun-dust;  red  rays 
from  the  west  painted  across  the  eastern  wall.  And,  pos- 
sessing all,  a  hushed  mag^c — a  spell  invisible — the  intimacy 
of    this    absent    girl; — ^its    mystery,    everywhere — in    the 

191 


192  E  R I  S 

shadowy  doorway  beyond,  from  which  stole  the  scent  of 
unseen  lilies.  .  .  . 

So  intimate,  so  part  of  her  seemed  everything  that  even 
his  roses  appeared  intruders  here  in  the  rosy  demi-dusk 
where  sun  rays  barred  door  and  window  of  her  sanctuary 
with  barriers  of  crimson  fire. 

The  evening  paper  had  slipped  to  the  floor.  His  specu- 
lative eyes,  remote,  were  fixed  on  the  red  rods  of  waning 
light:  he  sat  upright,  unstirring,  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
hears  without  listening,  but  awaits  the  unheard. 

She  came  up  the  stairs,  running  lightly;  flung  open  the 
door  ajar,  greeted  him  with  a  little  gasp  of  happy,  breath- 
less recognition. 

When  she  could  explain  at  her  ease:  "Frank  Donnell  is 
patching  in  and  re-taking  with  me  before  Mr.  Creevy 
begins.  To-morrow  we  finish,  and  the  day  after — '* 
she  laughed  excitedly,  " — I  begin  with  my  own  com- 
pany !" 

"Wonderful!"  he  admitted;  "I  hope  you'll  be  as  happy 
and  as  fortunate  with  your  new  director,  Eris." 

"I  hope  so.     I'm  very  fond  of  Mr.  Donnell "     She 

pulled  off  her  blue  turban,  glanced  over  her  shoulder  into 
the  mirror,  turned  and  looked  happily  at  Annan.  Then 
her  smile  faded.     "Aren't  you  well?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly  I  am.     Why?" 

"I  thought — you  seemed  thin — a  trifle  tired " 

"Bored,"  he  nodded  briefly. 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  astonished. 

"I  don't  know.     Probably  because  I've  missed  you." 

Recognising  only  a  jest  in  kindness  meant,  she  smiled 
response  and  went  into  her  bed-room. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "my  room  is  full  of  lilies!"  She 
came  to  the  door,  inarticulate  with  gratitude,  exaggerating, 
as  always,  kindness  of  giver  and  beauty  of  gift;  then  in- 


E  R I  S  198 

adequately  thanked  him — invited  him  to  enter  and  see 
where  Hattie  had  placed  his  flowers. 

"Don't  sleep  with  them ;  they'll  give  you  a  headache,"  he 
remarked. 

For  a  little  while  she  lingered  over  the  scented  flowers. 
Then  there  was  just  a  moment's  hesitation;  and,  as  he  did 
not  seem  inclined  to  leave,  she  seated  herself  at  her  dressing 
table,  shook  out  her  bobbed  hair — fleeting  revelation  of 
close-set  ears  and  nape  milk-white  under  thickest  chestnut 
curls. 

Deftly  she  re-parted,  re-touched,  coaxed,  petted,  intent 
vpon  her  business  with  this  soft,  crisp  shock  of  curls.  Her 
every  movement  fascinated  him — the  twisted  grace  of  her 
lithe  back,  celerity  of  slender  wrist  and  fingers, — ^white! — 
oh,  so  white  and  swift  and  sure!  .  .  . 

He  bent  and  touched  her  head  with  his  lips.  Movement 
ceased  instantly;  hovering  hands  froze  stiff,  suspended; 
she  sat  as  motionless  as  the  lilies  in  her  room. 

After  a  moment's  wordless  silence,  manual  activity  ven- 
tured to  resume,  tentatively,  with  little  intervals  of  hesi- 
tation— silent,  intent,  inquiring  perhaps;  perhaps  inherent 
apprehension  which  turns  the  feminine  five  senses  into  ears.. 

"You  want  the  place  to  yourself,"  he  said,  as  coolly  as 
he  could;  and  sauntered  into  the  living-room.  Where  he 
resumed  the  evening  paper  as  though  impatient  to  read  it 
But  his  eyes  watched  her  closing  door;  rested  there. 

Before  she  reappeared,  Hattie  waddled  into  view  to  an- 
nounce dinner.  Annan,  pacing  the  room,  impatient  of  his 
own  restlessness,  turned  nervously  as  Eris  opened  her  door. 
She  wore  a  thin  black  gown — nothing  to  relieve  its  slim  and 
sombre  simplicity  except  the  snowy  skin  and  the  cheek's 
rose-warmth  shadowed  by  gold-red  hair. 

She  smiled  her  confidence;  invited  him  with  extended 
hand.  He  took  possession  of  her  cool,  bare  arm,  walked 
slowly  with  her  to  the  dining-room,  seated  her,  touched  her 
hair  lightly  with  his  cheek. 


194.  E  R I  S 

For  all  his  fluency  he  found  no  word  to  link  the  liaison — 
nothing  to  smooth  the  slight  contact  of  caress. 

She  drew  his  attention  to  the  rose  beside  his  service  plate : 
he  leaned  toward  her;  she  picked  up  the  bud  and  drew  it 
through  his  lapel  without  embarrassment. 

In  the  girl's  slight  smile  suddenly  Annan  found  his 
tongue.  And  now,  as  always,  his  easy  flow  of  speech 
began  to  stimulate  her  to  an  increasing  facility  of  response. 

Hers,  too,  was  now  the  initiative  as  often  as  his ;  she  told 
him  gaily  about  the  closing  hours  at  the  studio  under  Frank 
Donnell's  directorship ;  all  about  the  assembling  of  her  own 
company  under  Mr.  Creevy;  about  her  new  camera-man, 
Emil  Shunk ;  the  search  for  stories ;  the  several  continuities 
still  under  consideration.  She  spoke  warmly  of  Albert 
Smull,  and  of  his  partner,  Leopold  Shill ;  of  their  constant 
generosity  to  her,  and  of  her  determination  that  they  should 
never  regret  their  belief  in  her  ability  to  make  their  invest- 
ment profitable. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "so  amazing,  so  wonderful, 
that  such  keen  business  men  should  venture  to  risk  so  much 
on  a  girl  they  scarcely  know,  that  it  frightens  me  at 
moments." 

"Don't  worry,"  he  remarked  with  a  shrug;  "it's  a  more 
interesting  gamble  for  them  than  the  stock-market  offers 
these  days.  They're  having  their  fun  out  of  it — Shill, 
Smull  &  Co." 

"Oh!  Do  you  think  it's  quite  that?"  she  asked, 
flushing. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "every  enterprise  is  a  risk  of  sorts, 
isn't  it?  To  take  a  chance  is  always  amusing.  Nothing 
flatters  like  picking  a  winner  on  one's  own  best  judgment. 
You're  what  Broadway  calls  'sure  fire.*  It  doesn't  take 
much  courage  to  lay  odds  on  you.  Eris." 

She  nodded,  her  colour  still  high:  "Yes,  I  suppose  Mr. 
Smull  looks  at  it  that  way.  It  really  is  a  matter  of  business, 
of  course.  .  .  .  But  he  is  very  kind  to  me." 


ERIS  196 

"If  it  were  anything  except  a  matter  of  business  it  would 
scarcely  do,  would  it?"  asked  Annan  carelessly. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand.     Please  tell  me." 

"I  mean — it's  quite  all  right  for  a  man  to  bet  on  a  girl 
if  he  believes  her  professionally  capable.  That's  finance — 
of  one  sort.     That's  a  business  investment." 

"What  other  sort  of  investment  is  there?"  she  asked. 
"Will  you  tell  me?" 

"The  other  sort  is  to  finance  an  enterprise  out  of— 
friendship.  That's  not  legitimate — on  either  side.  .  .  . 
And  even  when  it's  sheer  business  it's  a  ticklish  one." 

She  remained  absorbed  for  a  while  in  her  own  reflections. 
Then,  idling  over  her  strawberries  and  orange  ice:  "Do 
you  think  that  a  girl  really  has  no  right  to  accept  such  heavy 
responsibility  as  is  now  mine?"  she  inquired. 

"I'm  thinking  about  your  obligations — burdensome  in 
success,  crushing  in  failure.  .  .  .  Because  you  are  the  kind 
of  girl  who  will  so  consider  them." 

"What  kind  of  girl  do  you  mean?" 

"Conscientious." 

"Of  course." 

"But  too  sensitive,  too  generous,  too  easily  overwhelmed 
by  a  sense  of  obligations — mostly  imaginary." 

She  continued  with  her  reflections  and  her  strawberries. 
Finally  coffee  was  served ;  he  lighted  a  cigarette.  Eris  had 
not  yet  commented  upon  his  final  proposition. 

"It  really  depends  on  the  man,"  he  remarked,  "how  diffi- 
cult or  how  easy  a  girl's  position  is  to  be.  It's  always  cer- 
tain to  be  difficult  if  the  deal  be  merely  a  speculation  in 
friendship  and  not  in  business." 

She  tasted  her  coffee:  "Yes,  it  might  be — ^perplexing," 
she  said. 

"You  see  the  possibility  of  confusion? — ^gratitude  worry- 
ing about  what  is  expected  of  it;  dread  of  reproach  for 
benefits  forgot — the  mask  to  choose  and  wear  in  the  lively 
hope  of  benefits  to  come — no;  speculation  in  friendship  is 


196  E  R I  S 

never  legitimate  gambling.  It's  bad  business,  bad  sports- 
manship." 

She  considered  this  over  her  coffee,  her  serious  eyes 
intent  on  the  flecks  of  foam  in  her  cup,  with  which  she 
played  with  her  little  silver  spoon. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  Mr,  Smull  is 
taking  a  legitimate  chance  in  financing  my  company?" 

"You're  a  perfectly  legitimate  risk.  I  told  you  so. 
You're  sure  fire." 

She  looked  up:  "Do  you  think  that  was  Mr.  Smull's 
motive?" 

"I  don't  know,  Eris." 

After  a  pause:    "You  don't  like  him,  do  you?" 

"Not  much." 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?" 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  why.  .  .  .  Do  you  like  him,  Eris?" 

"I'd  be  ashamed  not  to." 

"Because  he's  kind?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  why  you  say  you  like  me,"  observed  Annan, 
smiling. 

She  smiled,  too,  rather  vaguely. 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  like  me,  Eris?"  he  persisted — 
"because  you  consider  me  kind?" 

"What  do  you  think  it  is?"  she  murmured,  still  smiling 
a  little  to  herself. 

"I'm  not  certain  you  like  me  as  well  as  you  once  did." 

The  boy  obvious,  suddenly !  The  eternal  and  beloved  ass 
that  every  woman  is  destined  to  meet.     And  forgive. 

"I — think  I  do,"  she  said. 

"Like  me  as  well  as  you  once  did?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!  My  conversation  still  amuses  you.  But  other- 
wise— well,  I'm  afraid  you  don't  care  quite  as  much  for 
me  as  you  did,  Eris." 

"Why?"— with  slow  lifted  eyes. 


ERIS  197 

"Because  I  kissed  you." 

The  ass  obvious,  at  last! 

She  made  no  reply.  Perhaps  he  hoped  for  shy  denial — 
for  some  diffident  evasion  anyway.  Her  unembarrassed 
silence  troubled  him  because  he  had  not  really  harboured 
the  fear  he  pretended. 

Now,  however,  the  possibility  made  him  uneasy. 

"Glance  into  your  mirror,  Eris,"  he  said  lightly,  "and 
tell  me  how  I  could  have  helped  what  I  did." 

Her  face,  partly  averted,  remained  so,  unflushed,  unre- 
sponsive. 

Hattie  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  looked  in,  bulking  like 
a  vast,  dark  cloud. 

"You  may  come  in  and  clear  up,"  said  Eris  quietly. 
She  rose  from  the  table  and  they  walked  into  the  farther 
room  and  seated  themselves,  she  on  the  sofa,  with  an  un- 
troubled aloofness  that  did  not  encourage  him  to  closer 
approach  than  a  chair  pulled  up  opposite  her. 

She  had  turned  to  some  of  his  flowers  as  though  to 
include  them  in  a  friendly  circle. 

"Your  roses  are  such  heavenly  company,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

"I  never  knew  anybody  so  charmingly  interested  in 
flowers,"  he  said  with  smiling  malice. 

She  understood,  laughed,  turned  to  him. 

"I'm  interested,  also,  to  hear  how  your  novel  is  pro- 
gressing," she  said. 

"It  isn't" 

"Haven't  you  worked?"  she  inquired  with  sweet  concern. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  he  said  deliberately,  "my  mind  is  too  full  of 
you  to  contain  anything  else." 

A  pause :  "Then,"  she  said,  "you  had  better  not  see  me 
until  you  feel  inclined  to  resume  work." 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  very  much,"  he  remarked. 


198  E  R  I  S 

She  was  looking  again  at  the  roses.  She  made  no  reply. 
The  cold,  rosy  loveliness  of  her  enthralled  and  chilled  him. 
Where  the  chestnut  hair  touched  her  cheek  a  carnation  flush 
warmed  the  slight  shadow. 

"I'll  resume  work,"  he  said  abruptly. 

She  nodded,  her  face  close  to  the  roses. 

"How  would  you  like  me  to  make  a  scenario  of  my  last 
novel  for  you?"  he  asked.  He  had  prepared  this  surprise 
during  the  two  days'  separation — had  even  visualised  her 
delight. 

If  he  expected  emotional  response,  the  impulsive  grati- 
tude that  hitherto  had  so  charmingly  over-valued  his  little 
gifts,  he  was  to  be  stunningly  disappointed. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  out  of  frankly  troubled 
eyes;  and  from  that  moment  he  learned  that  whatever  he 
ever  was  to  have  from  this  girl  would  be  only  what  her 
honesty  could  offer. 

"I  couldn't  play  such  a  part,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "You  are 
most  kind.  .  .  .  But  I  never  could  be  able  to  do  it." 

"Why?     Do  you  think  it  would  prove  too  difficult?" 

"Yes,  .  .  .  too  difficult  .  .  .  because  I  don't  believe  in 
such  a  part — or  in  such  a  character." 

He  sat  thunderstruck.  Then  he  flushed  to  the  temples 
and  the  last  rag  of  masculine  condescension  fell  from  him, 
leaving  him  boyishly  bewildered  and  chagrined. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  like  the  story?"  he  asked 
incredulously. 

"I  like  the  way  you  wrote  it.  But  my  opinion  is  of  no 
value.  Everybody  says  it  is  a  great  novel.  Betsy  told 
me  that  the  whole  country  is  madly  discussing  it.  Every- 
body who  can  judge  such  things  knows  that  it  is  a  very 
wonderful  book.     So  does  it  matter  what  I  think " 

"It  does,  to  me"  he  said  almost  savagely.  "Why  don't 
you  like  it,  Eris?" 

She  was  silent,  and  his  tone  changed:  "Won't  you  tell 
me  why?"  he  pleaded. 


E  R I S  199 

Again  the  order  reversed — the  eternal  cry  of  Eris  on  his 
lips,  now, — he,  her  court  of  appeal,  appealing  to  her, — in 
mortified  quest  of  knowledge, — of  truth,  perhaps, — or, 
astonished,  wounded  in  snobbery  and  pride,  seeking  some 
remedy  for  the  surprising  hurt — some  shred  of  his  former 
authority  to  guide  her  back  into  the  attitude  which  now 
he  realised  had  meant  so  much  to  unconscious  snobbery  and 
happy  vanity. 

And  now  Eris  knew  that  their  hour  for  understanding 
had  arrived.  She  had  much  to  say  to  him.  Her  clasped 
hands  tightened  nervously  in  her  lap  but  the  level  eyes 
were  steady. 

She  said,  very  slowly:  "I  have  known  imhappiness, 
Mr.  Annan.  And  ugliness.  And  hardship.  But  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  let  my  mind  dwell  upon  these  things.  .  .  . 
Stories  where  life  begins  without  hope  and  continues  hope- 
lessly, seem  needless  and  more  or  less  distorted.  And 
rather  cowardly.  .  .  .  One's  mind  dwells  most  constantly 
on  what  one  likes.  ...  I  do  not  like  deformity.  Also,  it 
is  not  the  rule;  it  is  the  exception.  ...  So  is  ugliness. 
And  evil.  A  little  seasons  art  sufficiently.  .  .  .  Only  beasts 
eat  garlic  wholesale.  .  .  .  Those  who  find  perpetual  interest 
in  misshapen  minds  and  bodies  and  souls  are  either  physi- 
cians or  are  themselves  in  some  manner  misshapen.  .  .  . 
Unhappiness,  ugliness,  squalor,  misery,  evil, — in  the  midst 
of  these,  or  of  the  even  more  terrible  isolation  of  the  lonely 
mind, — always  one  can  summon  courage  to  dream  nobly. 
.  .  .  And  what  one  dares  dream  one  can  become, — in- 
wardly always, — often  outwardly  and  actually." 

She  lifted  her  deep,  grey  eyes  to  his  reddened  face. 

"I  do  admire  you,  and  your  mind,  and  your  skill  in 
attainment.  But  I  have  not  been  able  to  comprehend  the 
greatness  of  what  you  write,  and  what  all  acclaim.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  like  it.     I  can  not. 

"I  could  neither  understand  nor  play  such  a  character 
as  the  woman  in  your  last  book.  .  .  .  Nor  could  I  ever 


200  E  R I S 

believe  in  her.  .  .  .  Nor  in  the  ugliness  of  her  world — the 
world  you  write  about,  nor  in  the  dreary,  hopeless,  mal- 
formed, starving  minds  you  analyse.  .  .  ,  My  God,  Mr. 
Annan — are  there  no  wholesome  brains  in  the  world  you 
write  about?  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  .  ,  .  You  know  that  I  am 
ignorant,  not  experienced,  crude — trying  to  learn  truths, 
striving  to  see  and  understand.  ...  I  have  not  travelled 
far  on  any  road.  But  I  shall  never  live  long  enough  to 
travel  the  road  you  follow,  nor  shall  I  ever  comprehend 
such  vision,  such  intention,  such  art  as  you  have  mastered. 
.  .  .  You  are  a  master.  I  do  believe  that,  .  .  .  Always  you 
have  remained  very  wonderful  to  me.  .  .  .  Your  mind. 
.  .  ,  Your  wisdom.  .  .  .  You/' 

She  clasped  her  slender  fingers  tighter  over  her  knees 
but  looked  at  him  out  of  clear,  intelligent  eyes  that  seemed 
almost  black  in  their  purplish  depths. 

"With  me,"  she  said,  "the  love  of  beauty,  and  the  belief 
in  it,  give  me  all  my  strength.  I  need  to  believe  in  beauty : 
it  is  my  first  necessity,  .  .  .  And  remains  my  last,  ,  .  . 
And  I  never  have  discovered  a  truth  that  is  not  beautiful. 
.  .  .  There  is  no  ugliness,  no  evil  in  Truth." 

He  got  to  his  feet  slowly,  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room  in  an  aimless,  nervous  way,  as  though  under  some 
vague,  indefinite  menace, — of  proven  inferiority,  perhaps. 

Reaction  set  in  toward  boyish  self-assertion ;  and  it  came 
with  a  sudden  rush, — and  a  forced  laugh  that,  unexpectedly 
to  her,  exposed  his  wound. 

Surprised  that  he  had  suffered  such  a  one,  incredulous 
that  so  slight  a  mind  as  hers  had  dealt  it,  she  sat  watching 
him.  Gradually  all  the  bright  hardness  in  her  gaze  melted 
to  a  tender  grey.  Yet,  it  seemed  incredible  that  so  slight 
a  creature  as  she  could  matter  to  him  intellectually, — could 
have  hurt  so  brilliantly  armoured  a  being. 

And  then,  all  suddenly,  she  realised  she  had  hurt  a  boy 
and  not  a  mind. 

He  came  to  her  where  she  was  seated,  took  her  hands 


E  R  I  S  201 

from  her  lap,  looked  wretchedly  into  her  eyes,  starry  now 
with  imminence  of  tears. 

"All  that  really  matters,"  he  said,  "is  that  your  mind 
should  forgive  mine  and  your  heart  care  for  mine." 

His  clasp  was  drawing  her  to  her  feet ;  arid  she  stood  up, 
not  resisting,  not  confused,  nor  betraying  any  emotion 
visible  to  him,  unless  he  understood  the  starry  brilliancy  of 
her  young  eyes. 

"I'm  falling  in  love  with  you,  Eris.  That  is  the  only 
thing  that  matters,"  he  said. 

He  kissed  her  mouth  twice ;  drew  her  warm  head  to  his 
breast;  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  very  gently, — her 
clustered  curls;  and  she  looked  back  at  him  out  of  eyes  in 
which  light  trembled. 

H  her  soft,  cool  lips  remained  unresponsive,  at  least  they 
did  not  avoid  his,  nor  did  her  cool  body  drawn  close,  closely 
imprisoned. 

After  a  long  while,  against  him,  he  was  aware  of  her 
heart,  hurrying.  In  the  first  flash  of  boyish  passion  he 
crushed  her  in  his  arms  and  felt  her  breath  and  lips  sud- 
denly hot  against  his. 

Then,  in  the  instant,  she  had  disengaged  herself  violently 
and  had  stepped  clear  of  him,  scarlet  and  silent.  Nor  spoke 
until  he  followed  and  she  had  avoided  him  again. 

"Don't — do  that,"  she  said  unsteadily.  .  .  .  "You — 
hurt  me." 

"Eris!     I  love  you " 

"Don't  say  that.  ...  I  don't  like  it.  ...  I  don't  like 
it,"  she  repeated  breathlessly. 

A  silence — confusion  of  hurrying  atoms  of  time — a.  faint 
flash  from  chaos. 

"Can't  you  care  for  me,  Eris?"  he  whispered. 

She  turned  on  him,  pale,  controlled :  "I  don't  like  what 
you  did,  I  tell  you!  .  .  .  And  that's  th^it!" 

For  a  long  while  they  stood  there,  unstirring. 

"Do  you  dismiss  me?"  he  asked  at  last. 


202  E  R  I  S 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Had  you  rather  that  I  should  go,  Eris?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  ?"  he  asked,  like  a  whipped  boy. 

"Because  I  am  tired  of  you,"  she  said  evenly. 

He  stepped  to  the  corridor,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  but 
lingered,  all  hot  with  the  rebuff,  despising  himself  for 
lingering.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  knob,  miserably 
hoping,  miserable  in  his  self -contempt. 

"Eris!" 

She  did  not  even  turn  her  head. 

He  left  the  hall  door  open,  still  miserably  hoping,  scorning 
himself,  but  lagging  on  the  stairs.  As  he  reached  the  street 
door  he  heard  her  close  her  own  with  a  crash  and  bolt  it. 

It  was  after  midnight, — and  after  she  had  finished  cry- 
ing,— that  the  girl  began  to  undress. 

Once  she  thought  she  heard  him  return, — thought  she 
heard  his  voice  at  her  door,  calling  her ;  and  her  eyes  flamed. 

But  on  her  pillow  she  began  to  cry  again,  soundlessly, 
one  arm  flung  across  her  face. 
Eris,  daughter  of  Discord.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XXII 

COLTFOOT  had  a  short  note  from  Annan  asking  him 
to  lunch.     He  called  up,  saying  that  he  couldn't  get 
away  until  afternoon. 

When  he  did  arrive  at  No.  3  Governor's  Place,  Mrs. 
Sniffen  said  that  Mr.  Annan  was  lying  down — that  for  the 
last  two  weeks  he  had  not  seemed  to  be  very  well. 

"What's  wrong  with  him?"  asked  Coltfoot. 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  'E  doesn't  go  out  any  more.  'E 
'asn't  left  the  'ouse  in  the  last  fortnight." 

"That's  nothing.     He's  working." 

"No,  sir ;  Mr.  Annan  don't  write.  He  just  reads  or  sits 
quiet  like  till  a  fit  takes  'im  sudden,  and  then  he  walks  and 
walks  and  walks." 

"Does  he  eat?" 

"Nothing  to  keep  a  canary  'ealthy.  It's  'igh-balls  what 
keep  *im  up,  Mr.  Coltfoot;  and  I  'ate  to  say  so,  but  it 
worrits  me." 

"Mr.  Annan  doesn't  drink,"  said  Coltfoot  incredulously. 

"Oh,  no,  sir — a  glass  of  claret  at  dinner — a  cocktail  per- 
haps. It's  only  the  last  two  weeks  that  I  'ave  to  keep  'im 
in  ice  and  siphons." 

Coltfoot,  puzzled,  thought  a  moment:  "All  right,"  he 
said,  "I'll  go  up." 

Annan,  lying  on  the  lounge,  heard  him  and  sat  up. 

They  shook  hands;  Annan  pushed  the  Irish  whiskey  to- 
ward him  and  pointed  to  the  ice  and  mineral  water. 

"Mike,"  he  said,  "is  my  stuff  rotten?" 

Coltfoot,  who  had  been  inspecting  his  thin  features, 
laughed. 

203 


«04f  E  R I  S 

"Not  so  rotten,"  he  said.     "Why?" 

"You  once  said  it  was  all  wrong." 

"Probably  professional  jealousy,  Barry "  He  con- 
structed an  iced  draught  for  himself,  sipped  it,  furtively 
noticing  the  bluish  shadows  on  Annan's  temples  and  under 
his  cheek  bones. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  I'm  worried  because  I  can't  write." 

"Rot,  my  son." 

"It's  quite  true.  I  haven't  touched  a  pen  for  a  month, 
nearly.  .  .  .  The  hell  of  it  is  that  I've  nothing  to  say." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Good  God,  Mike,"  he  burst  out,  "do  you  think  Vm 
done  for?" 

"I  think  not,"  drawled  the  other. 

"Because — I  can't  work.  I  can't.  I  seem  to  be  in  a 
sort  of  nightmare  state  of  mind.  .  ,  .  Did  you  ever  feel 
that  the  world's  askew  and  everything  out  of  proportion?" 

"No,  I  never  did.  Something  has  happened  to  you, 
Barry." 

"Nothing — important.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  But  I'm  rather 
scared  about  my  work.  You  know  those  stories  I  did  for 
you?     I  hate  them!" 

"You  ungrateful  young  devil,  they  made  you." 

'What  did  they  make  me?" 

"A  best  seller — for  one  item.  A  fine  workman  for 
another " 

"Mike!  Who  cares  for  good  workmanship  in  these 
days?  Who  understands  it  when  he  sees  it?  Who  does 
it? 

"It's  a  jerry-age, — ^jerry-built  houses,  furniture,  ma- 
chinery,— jerry-built  literature,  music,  drama, — jerry-built 
nations  too, — and  marriages  and  children  and  every  damned 
thing  that  once  required  good  workmanship. 

"Now,  everything  is  glue  and  pasteboard  and  unskilled 
labour " 


E  R I  S  205 

"Oh,  lay  off  on  your  jerry-built  jeremiad!"  cried  Colt- 
foot,  laughing.     "Where  do  you  get  that  stuff?" 

"Stuff  is  right,  too.  I'm  a  fake,  also.  I'm  a  jerry-built 
author  with  a  jerry-built  education  and  I  write  jerry- 
bui "     He  dodged  a  lump  of  ice. 

"Shut  up,"  said  Coltfoot  wearily.  "How  long  do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  listen?  Come  on,  now,  what's  started 
you  skidding,  Barry?" 

"You  started  me." 

"Oh — that  line  of  talk  I  handed  you?" 

"It  got  under  my  skin." 

"Oh!  Who's  been  sticking  the  knife  into  you  since? 
Not  your  fool  public.     Not  the  Great  American  Ass." 

Annan  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  who?" 

"Another — friend." 

"Is  that  what  upset  you?" 

"Yes Partly." 

"You're  not  ill,  are  you,  Barry?"  inquired  the  elder  man, 
curiously. 

"No,  I  should  say  not!" 

"Financial  troubles?  .  .  .  You  don't  mind  my  asking?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  anything  of  that  sort,  Mike.  ...  It  really 
isn't  anything," 

"You're  not — in  love.  .  .  .  Are  you?" 

"Hang  it  all,  no,  I'm  not!  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  I've  never  been 
in  love,  Mike." 

"You've  had  a  few  affairs,  dear  friend,"  remarked  Colt- 
foot,  amused. 

"Well,  you  know  the  kind.  Everybody  has  'em.  Every- 
body has  that  sort.  That's  just  vanity — silliness — no  harm, 
you  know.  .  .  .  The  young  are  always  sparring — like  little 
chicks  and  kittens." 

Coltfoot  finished  his  glass.  There  was  an  interval; 
Annan  set  both  elbows  on  his  knees  and  framed  his  drawn 
face  between  his  hands. 


206  E  R I  S 

"No,  I'm  not  in  love,"  he  said  as  though  to  himself. 

They  discussed  other  matters.  But  now  and  then  Annan 
drifted  back  to  love,  and  his  ignorance  of  it. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  carelessly,  "a  fellow  is  able  to  diag- 
nose the  thing  if  he  gets  it.  .  .  .  Recognise  it.  .  .  .  Don't 
you?" 

"Probably." 

"I  suppose  every  fellow  stands  a  chance  of  landing  there 
sooner  or  later." 

"You  write  about  it.     Don't  you  know?" 

"Certainly.  .  .  .  I'm  familiar  with  some  phases  of  it. 
.  .  .  The  phenomena  are  well  known." 

"The  various  sorts  of  love  and  its  aftermath  that  you 
write  about  are  enough  to  scare  any  man  off  that  stuff," 
remarked  Coltfoot. 

"Those  are  the  sorts  I've  seen.  ...  Or  the  cut  and  dried 
hypocrisy  of  my  own  kind  and  kindred.  .  .  .  I've  seen 
darned  few  cases  of  satisfactory  and  enduring  love.  .  .  , 
Darned  few,  Mike." 

"Then  there  are  a  few?" 

"Sure." 

"Why  not  write  about  one  such  incident?" 

After  a  silence  Annan  lifted  his  eyes  and  gave  him  a 
haggard  look. 

"I'm  afraid  of  Christmas-card  stuff,  I  guess.  .  .  .  Mike, 
I've  always  been  afraid  of  it.  I've  had  a  morbid  fear  of 
weakness.  .  .  .  And  do  you  know  I  believe  that  was  the 
real  weakness?     I  am  weak!" 

"Barry,  you've  merely  had  things  come  to  you  too  easily. 
You've  had  your  own  way  too  much.  You're  persuasive; 
you  get  it.  You've  been,  perhaps,  a  little  self-complacent, 
a  bit  smug,  a  trifle  cocksure.  .  .  .  All  strength  is  in  danger 
of  such  phases.  But  weakness  never  is.  Weakness  must 
assert  itself  or  silently  acquiesce  in  its  own  visible  inferi- 
ority. For  the  bragger  is  the  weakling,  not  he  who  does 
not  need  to  assert  himself. 


E  R  I  S  207 

"And  always  there  lies  a  danger  in  the  reticence  of 
strength  that,  unawares,  complacency  and  self-satisfaction 
may  taint  it,  and  strength  go  stale. 

After  a  silence:  "My  stuff  has  been  pretty  narrow,  I 
guess,"  muttered  Annan. 

"Narrow  calibre,  perhaps ;  but  powerful.  You  can  shoot 
a  bigger  gun  and  bigger  projectile,  Barry.  I  don't  know 
what  your  limits  may  be,  but  I  know  they're  wide — if  you 
care  to  range  them." 

"That's  nice  of  you,  Mike.  ...  I  guess  I'll  feel  like 
working  .  .  .  pretty  soon.  ...  As  for  falling  in  love, 
...  I  suppose  I'll  know  it  if  I  do.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

Colt  foot  took  his  hat  and  stick: 

"I'm  not  sure.  I  don't  believe  the  thing  conforms  always 
to  specific  gravity  or  Troy  weight  or  carats  or  decimals. 
I  don't  believe  that  a  standard  test  will  always  give  the  same 
reaction."  He  scowled:  "I  don't  believe  there's  such  a 
thing  as  love  in  elemental  supply.  I  think  it's  always  found 
in  combination — endless  combinations.  .  .  .  And  how  the 
hell  you're  to  recognise  it,  candidly,  I  don't  know." 

"Stay  to  dinner;  will  you,  Mike?" 

"Sorry.  ...  By  the  way,  how  is  your  little  waif,  the 
Goddess  of  Discord,  getting  on  with  Smull?" 

"All  right,  I  fancy." 

"Don't  you  see  her?" 

"I  haven't  lately." 

"Well,  the  gossip  is  that  she's  sure  fire.  Frank  Donnell 
believes  in  her.  I've  heard  that  Smull  is  crazy  about  her 
and  stands  to  back  her  to  the  limit.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry — 
rather." 

"About  what?"  asked  Annan  sharply. 

"Well,  in  Frank  Donnell  she  had  a  gentleman.  But 
Creevy  is  a  vulgar  fellow.  His  staff  isn't  so  much,  either. 
Too  bad  the  little  girl  couldn't  have  remained  in  Betsy 
Blythe's  company.     It  was  a  decent  bimch." 


208  E  R  I  S 

"Isn't  hers?" 

"Oh — I  guess  it's  endurable.  .  .  .  Creevy  is  a  rat.  So's 
Emil  Shunk.  Marc  Blither  and  Harry  Quiss  are  just  com- 
mon and  harmless.  ...  Of  course,  if  anybody  offends  your 
little  protegee  Albert  Smull  will  do  murder." 

"You  don't  like  Smull,"  said  Annan. 

"Neither  do  you." 

When  Colt  foot  had  gone  Annan  went  to  the  telephone. 
And  sat  there  for  an  hour  without  calling  anybody.  He 
had  done  this  every  day  for  two  weeks.  Sometimes  he 
did  it  several  times  a  day. 

Mrs.  Sniffen  knocked  and  asked  him  what  he  wished  for 
dinner. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  absently. 

She  stood  waiting  for  a  while :  "Will  you  ring,  sir,  when 
you  decide?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  Xantippe.  .  .  .  Thank  you." 

After  she  had  been  gone  for  some  time:  "Well,"  he 
breathed,  "I — I  can't  call  her  and  keep  any  self-respect. 
...  I  simply  can't  do  it.  .  .  .  She's  through  with  me  any- 
way. ...  I  suppose  I  acted  like  a  cad.  .  .  .  She  wasn't 
the  girl  to  understand  such  affairs.  .  .  .  She  is  better  than 
such  things.  ...  Or  too  stupid  for  them.  ,  .  .  Stupid  in 
that  way  only.  .  .  .  Too  damned  serious.  .  .  .  My  God, 
what  a  hiding  she  gave  me  for  my  book !  .  .  .  But  the  other 
was  worse.  ...  I  haven't  any  self-respect  when  I  remem- 
ber that.  ...  If  I  call  her  now,  she  can't  take  any  more 
away  from  me,  as  she's  got  all  I  had.  ..." 

He  came  back  to  the  telephone.  He  could  feel  the  pain- 
ful colour  hot  in  his  face  as  he  unhooked  the  receiver. 

In  a  hard  voice  he  called  her  number. 

"Now,"  he  said  with  an  oath,  "she  can  do  her  damnedest !" 

She  did. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HATTIE'S  voice  answered  him:  "Who  is  it,  please?" 
"Mr.  Annan.     Is  Miss  Odell  at  home?" 

"I'll  enquiah,  suh.     Please  to  hold  the  wiah." 

He  could  hear  her  fat  feet  clattering  away  along  the 
corridor.  An  endless,  endless  wait,  almost  a  quarter  of  a 
minute.  Steps  again  on  the  tiled  corridor, — not  Hattie's; 
then  the  composed  voice  of  Kris : 

"Mr.  Annan?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Do  you — are  you  quite  all  right  ?"  he  faltered. 

"Quite,  thank  you.     Are  you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  fine.  .  .  .  I'm  so  glad  you're  all  right.  .  ,  . 
Do  you  mind  my  calling  up?" 

"I  hoped  you  would,"  she  replied  calmly. 

"D-did  you? — really?"  he  stammered,  unable  to  believe 
his  ears. 

"Naturally.  I've  wondered  whether  you  have  been  too 
busy  to  call  me.     Have  you?" 

"Not  exactly — busy.  Do  you — suppose  I — I  could  see 
you,  Kris?" 

"Did  you  suppose  you  couldn't?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  didn't  know.  .  .  .  When  may  I?" 

"Probably,"  she  said,  "you  have  an  engagement  this 
evening " 

"No!     I'm  not  doing  anything  at  all!" 

"Then — will  you  come?" 

"Yes.     What  time?" 

"Any  time." 

"Do  you — do  you  mean  now?"  he  cried,  enchanted. 

209 


210  E  R  I  S 

Her  reply  was  slightly  indistinct :  "Yes,  as  soon  as  you 
possibly  can — if  you  would  be — so  kind " 

Again  the  low  hanging  sun  at  the  western  end  of  Jane 
Street,  cherry-red  in  the  river  mist,  washing  out  all  shabbi- 
ness  and  squalor  in  a  rosy  bath  of  light. 

A  barrel-organ,  played  by  an  old,  old  man,  drew  legions 
of  ragged  children  to  the  pavement  in  front  of  her  house, 
where  they  whirled  like  gnats  at  sunset,  dancing  to  some 
forgotten  rag — the  sun  spinning  its  nimbus  around  eadi 
dishevelled,  childish  head. 

Annan  made  his  way  through  the  milling  swarm  with  a 
caress  for  those  who  stumbled  across  his  path  and  a  silver- 
piece  tossed  to  the  ancient  where  he  leaned  on  his  organ, 
bent  almost  double,  tears  perpetual  in  his  sunken  eyes. 

He  ran  up  the  stairs ;  knocked. 

* 'Hello,  Hattie,"  he  tried  to  say — scarcely  conscious  of 
voice  at  all,  or  sight  or  hearing. 

"Gro  right  in,  Mr.  Annan,  suh " 

He  was  already  going,  not  knowing  any  longer  what  he 
was  about  The  sun-glare  on  the  windows  dazzled  him 
a  moment  before  he  saw  her. 

She  was  standing  at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  He 
went  slowly  toward  her,  not  knowing  how  they  were  to 
meet  after  ages  of  dead  days. 

Then,  still  knowing  nothing,  he  took  her  into  his  arms. 

Her  mouth  warmed  slightly  against  his.  As  his  embrace 
tightened,  her  hands  hovered  close  to  his  shoulders,  touched 
them,  crept  upward. 

Suddenly  the  girl  strained  him  to  her  with  all  her 
strength. 

In  the  silence  of  passionate  possession,  her  lips  melted 
to  his,  ...  a  moment,  .  .  .  then  her  head  dropped  on  his 
arm  with  a  sob. 

*T  was  londy; — ^you  made  me  feel  londy.  ,  .  .  Where 
have  you  bee«?" 


ERIS  211 

"I've  been  in  love  with  you " 

She  released  herself  but  clung  to  his  hand.  They  came 
together  again,  sank  down  on  the  lounge  together. 

"I've  been  lc«iely,"  she  repeated;  " — it's  been  deathly 
lonely  without  you.  .  .  .  I'm  tired — of  the  pain  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Dusk  in  the  room  turned  golden  with  a  rosy  tinge.  They 
had  not  spoken.  His  gaze  never  left  her  face.  At  inter- 
vals she  rested  her  bobbed  head  against  him,  confused  by 
the  dire  ruin  that  once  had  been  her  mind  before  love  burst 
in,  disordering  everything. 

Now,  groping  for  the  origin  of  the  cataclysm,  she  re- 
traced her  progress  through  a  maze  of  memories  to  the 
first  step.  The  Park!  Vision  of  hot  stars  overhead; 
vision  of  the  great  bed  where  she  lay  in  this  man's  house; 
vision  of  the  Coast — a  confusion  of  sunshine  and  feverish 
endeavour; — but  in  none  of  these  was  the  germ  of  The 
Beginning.  .  .  .  Yet  she  was  drawing  nearer  now.  The 
place  of  the  birth  of  love  was  not  far  away.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
she  found  it. 

And,  as  this  man  now  was  to  know  everything  that  she 
knew,  Eris  prepared  to  bare  her  untried  heart.  .  .  .  She 
offered  her  lips  first ;  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  vague  and 
virgin  curiosity. 

" — And  after  you  went  out,"  she  continwed,  "what  had 
happened  seemed  suddenly  to  demoralise  me.  I  was  exas- 
perated. ...  I  tore  your  rose  from  my  belt  and  threw  it 
after  you.  ...  I  slammed  the  door  and  bolted  it.  .  .  . 
As  though  I  could  bolt  out  what  had  happened  to  me! — " 
She  laughed  and  looked  happily  into  his  eyes, — "Barry! 
As  though  I  could  bolt  it  out!" 

He  kissed  her  hands ;  her  lips  caressed  his  bent  head. 

"...  And,  do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "I  even  swore 
at  you?" 

"Swore  at "     Laughter  checked  him. 

"Yes,  I  damned  you.    I  knew  how  to.    They  swear  hard 


212       ,  E  R I S 

on  farms.  .  .  .  Oh,  Barry,  I  swore  at  you  like  a  hired 
man!" 

"You  dear,"  he  said,  " — you  dear!" 

"You  say  that  now,  but  you  nearly  drove  me  mad  that 
evening.  .  .  .  You  did!" 

"I  was  half  crazy  myself,  Eris " 

"Were  you!"  she  pleaded  with  swift  tenderness.  "Oh, 
Barry,  you  are  tJiin!  You  look  ill.  I  was  frightened  when 
you  came  in  this  evening " 

She  drew  his  head  to  her  again,  caressed  it,  tender,  peni- 
tent: 

"You  are  riot  well.     Can  I  do  anything?" 

"You  are  doing  it." 

"I  know.  ...  I  wish  I  could  take  care  of  you " 

"You're  going  to  feed  me,  presently." 

"You  make  a  joke  of  it;  but  you're  ill,  and  I  did  it!" 

"Blessed  child,  I'll  be  so  fat  in  a  week  that  I'll  waddle 
likeHattie!" 

"Show  me,"  she  urged,  enchanted. 

He  got  up  and  tried  to  waddle,  and  she  sank  back,  con- 
vulsed. 

In  fact,  they  both  had  become  rather  light  headed  by  the 
time  Hattie  announced  dinner. 

It  was  love's  April — gusty  with  unbidden  gaiety — with 
heavenly  intervals  of  calm;  of  caprice;  of  stormy  contact; 
of  smiles,  tremulous,  close  to  tears — lips  touching  in  won- 
der; and  the  sudden  breeze  of  laughter  freshening,  refresh- 
ing mind  and  body : — their  April  in  Love  after  youth's  long 
winter. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "I've  rather  a  horrid  dinner  for 
you.     I  was  dining  out,  and  you  didn't  give  me  time " 

"You  broke  a  dinner  engagement  for  me,  Eris?" 

"I  telephoned  Nancy  Cassell  that  I  couldn't  come.  It 
doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  Anyway,  that's  why  you're  having 
omelette  and  minced  chicken.  ..." 

Now  and  then  she  slipped  her  cool,  smooth  hand  into  his 


E  R  I  S  213 

under  the  camouflage  of  the  cloth.  And  she  ate  so,  some- 
times awkwardly;  and  clung  a  little  to  his  hand  when  he 
would  have  released  hers. 

Once  she  drew  a  deep,  uneven  breath :  "I  never  expected 
to  be  in  love,"  she  said.     "Oh,  Barry,  it's  so  inconvenient!" 

"How?"  he  protested. 

"My  dear!  I  work  like  the  dickens!  It  would  be  all 
right  if  I  could  come  back  to  you  at  night.  But  this 
way " 

After  a  silence:    "That  must  happen,  too,  Eris." 

"I'll  have  to  talk  to  you  about  that.  .  .  .  And  there  are 
evenings  when  I  must  study — rehearse  before  the  mirror — 
or  read  very  hard.  And  some  evenings  I  am  dead  tired. 
.  .  .  And  then  there  are  dinners.  .  .  .  And  one's  friends. 
.  .  .  Darling! — you  look  at  me  so  oddly!" 

"Well — as  I'm  in  love  with  you,  Yd  rather  like  to  see  you 
more  than  twice  a  year " 

She  laughed  and  caught  his  hands — set  her  lips  to  them — 
looked  up  at  him  again  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 

"To  be  loved  by  you!"  she  said,  "is  too  wonderful  for 
me!" 

"Once,"  he  reminded  her  with  malice,  "you  told  me  you 
were  tired  of  me " 

Her  shocked  face  checked  him. 

"I  was  only  joking,  Eris " 

"I  did  say  it !  And  I  was  already  in  love  with  you  when 
I  said  it.  God  and  you  punished  me  instantly.  But  I 
couldn't  ever  bear  to  have  you  two  do  it  again " 

Somebody  had  sent  her  some  cordials, — ^mint,  curagoa, — 
that  sort.  She  was  unaccustomed — had  no  taste  for  such 
things.  But  she  was  happy  to  show  him  her  sideboard  after 
dinner. 

"It's  all  for  you.  You  like  such  things,  don't  you? 
Well,  then,  I'm  going  to  keep  them  for  you.  .  .  .  Rosalind 
goes  schmoozing  about  when  she  comes  here.     Other  girls. 


214  E  R I  S 

also.  But  I've  been  unutterably  mean — and  I've  hoarded 
it  for  you." 

"Then  you  did  expect  me  to  call  you  up?"  he  asked, 
laughingly. 

"Oh,  Lord,  I  didn't  know.  If  you  hadn't  called  me  I 
couldn't  have  stood  it  much  longer." 

"Would  you  have  called  me?" 

"Of  course.  ...  Or  died." 

"Why  didn't  you  call  me?" 

"I  was  afraid.  .  .  .  And  I  wasn't  quite  dead,  yet " 

"Of  what  were  you  afraid?" 

"I  knew  you  must  be  very  bored  with  me.  .  .  .  And 
there  was  something  else.  ...  It  scared  me.  ...  It  still 
exists." 

"Tell  me,  Ens." 

"Yes;  I'll  have  to  tell  you,  now."  They  rose  from  the 
table  and  she  took  his  arm.  .  .  .  "But  you  must  love  me, 
Barry ! — I've  got  to  be  loved  by  you  now." 

In  the  lamp-lit  sitting  room  he  drew  her  to  him :  "How 
could  I  help  loving  you,  Kris?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  help  it." 

"I  couldn't,  anyway.  So  you  needn't  fear  to  tell  me 
anything  you  please." 

"No.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  tell  you,  whether  it  scares  me  or 
not.  ...  I   think   I'd  rather  wait  until   just   before  you 

go- 
She  curled  up  on  the  sofa  close  to  him,  one  hand  clasping 

her  ankles,  the  other  against  his  shoulder. 

"Also,  I  want  to  explain  to  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  didn't 

know  Mrs.  Grandcourt  was  your  aunt  until  after  I'd  fallen 

in  love  with  you." 

"I  don't  follow  the  continuity " 

"I  mean  I'm  not  socially  ambitious." 

He  was  still  mystified. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  very  important  socially," 

she  explained. 


E  R  I  S  216 

"I'm  not.  My  aunt  thinks  she  is,  but  really  she  isn't  any 
more.  Life  passed  her  on  the  road  at  eighty  with  every 
cylinder  hitting.  I  never  travelled  that  highway.  But  my 
poor  aunt  still  trundles  along  it  in  an  ancient  victoria. 
Even  the  flivvers  cover  her  old-mine  diamonds  with  plebeian 
joy-dust " 

Eris,  helpless  with  laughter,  clung  to  his  shoulder.    ' 

"I  don't  wish  to  laugh,"  she  protested.  "Your  aunt  is 
nice  to  me.  .  .  .  Though  rather  horrid  to  Betsy.  ...  It 
seems  she  knew  my  grandmother.  She  says  she  told  you 
that." 

"When  did  she  admit  to  you  that  my  relationship  dis- 
graced her?" 

"Yesterday." 

"Oh,  so  you  continue  to  see  her  in  town?" 

"I  lunched  with  her." 

"In  her  private  morgue?" 

"It  is  gloomy." 

"I  suppose,  while  she  was  about  it,  she  handed  you  a 
lurid  line  or  two  regarding  me." 

"Well — yes.  ...  I  am  instructed  to  beware  of  you. 
,  .  .  Darling!" 

"Are  you  going  to  beware  of  me?" 

"No." 

He  kissed  her  threateningly:  "What  do  you  suppose  my 
aunt  would  think  if  she  knew  you  had  once  been  my  guest 
orer  night?" 

"I  told  her." 

"What !"  he  exclaimed. 

"But,  Barry,  I  couldn't  allow  her  to  be  so  friendly  unless 
she  understood  what  sort  of  girl  I  am." 

"You  didn't  tell  her  about  the  Park,  also?" 

"I  did." 

"How  did  she  take  it?" 

"She  said  such  severe  things  about  you — I  was  quite 
annoyed!  .  .  .  Dreadful  things,  darling " 


216  E  R  I  S 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.     She  called  you  several  ghastly  names        " 

"Which?" 

"Well— 'libertine'." 

He  roared  with  laughter  but  Eris  had  turned  rosy. 

"I  told  her  very  plainly  that  you  were  not,"  she  said. 
"I  told  her  you  were  kind  and  generous  and  harmless " 

"Good  Lord !"  he  exclaimed,  helpless  with  laughter  again. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  You  are  harmless!"  she 
repeated.     "Aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  darling.  .  .  .  But  some  encomiums  hurt  as  well 
as  edify.  .  .  .  Never  mind.     Go  on." 

"That  was  all.  .  .  .  Except  she  tried  to  persuade  me  to 
give  up  my  profession.     She  always  does." 

"What  does  she  graciously  suggest  for  you  ?" 

*'Why,  I  suppose  she  wishes  to  be  kind  to  me  because  she 
was  very  fond  of  my  grandmother.  .  .  .  But  I  couldn't  go 
and  live  with  her." 

"She  asked  you?" 

Eris  nodded, 

"My  aunt,"  he  said  good  humouredly,  "is  very  rich  and 
very  stingy.  You're  the  only  person  I  ever  heard  of  on 
whom  she  was  ready  to  spend  real  money.  What  did  she 
propose?" 

"Adoption,  I  believe." 

"Lord!  She  really  must  have  cared  for  your  grand- 
mother. ..." 

"I  think  she  really  did." 

After  a  silence:    "You  declined?" 

"Darling!     Do  you  think  such  things  count  with  me?" 

After  a  silence:  "Did  you  tell  her  I'd  ever  kissed  you?" 
he  asked  curiously. 

"That  was  none  of  her  business,  Barry." 

He  laughed:  "So  you  pass  up  the  wealthy  aunt  for  the 
libertine  nephew?     Do  you?" 

"I  do.     I  like  him.     In  fact,  I'm  rather  in  the  way  of 


E  R I  S  217 

loving  him.  Also,  I  love  liberty,  and  freedom  to  pursue 
happiness.     Happiness  means  work,  and  you." 

"Which  comes  first,  work  or  me?" 

"Darling!" 

"JVhichr 

"I  don't  have  to  make  that  choice '* 

"Suppose  you  had  to?"  he  insisted. 

"Fd  be  fearfully  unhappy " 

"But  you'd  choose  work.  .  .  .  Would  you,  Eris?" 

"I — suppose   so.  .  .  .  Probably   I'd  die   in  either  case. 

.  .  .  Work  means  life I  guess  you  do,  too.     But 

if  I  had  to  choose  I'd  choose  work,  I  suppose." 

Nothing  ever  had  touched  him  so  deeply ;  nor  had  so  pro- 
foundly surprised  him. 

He  said :  "Every  word  I  ever  have  heard  you  utter 
merely  reveals  new  beauty  in  you, — and  my  own  heart, 
more  and  more  in  love  with  you." 

He  drew  her  close  to  his  breast;  spoke  with  his  lips  on 
her  cheek : 

"Would  marrying  me  hamper  you?  .  .  .  Had  you  rather 
wait  until  you  are  more  secure  in  your  profession?" 

"Darling!"  she  said  pitifully,  " — that  is  what  I  had  to 
tell  you.     I  m}i  married." 

He  stared  at  her  astounded. 

After  a  tense  silence:  "Please  love  me — Barry "  she 

whispered.     "Please,  dear!" 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  appeal,  as  unconscious  of  drama 
as  she  had  been  that  day  on  Whitewater  Brook  when  Mr. 
Quiss  threatened  to  swim  out  of  her  ken. 

"Barry!    Are  you  disgusted?" 

"Why,  it  seems  so  impossible " 

"To  love  me?" 

"No! — that  you — you  ever  have  been  married!" 
"I   haven't  been — entirely.  .  .  .  Only   legally.  .  .  .  and 
partly." 


«18  E  R  I  S 

He  thought:  "My  God,  there  seems  to  be  something  the 
matter  with  everybody  and  everything."  And  to  Eris: 
"Why  didn't  you  ever  tell  me?" 

"It  was  none  of  your  business  until  I  fell  in  love  with 
you,  was  it?" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  roughly:  "It's  my  business 
now.  Do  you  understand?  I'll  never  give  you  up.  .  .  . 
Look  at  me,  Eris !" 

He  was  hurting  her;  and  she  smiled  and  endured  her 
bruises,  breast  and  lips  and  limb. 

She  said :  "If  you  marry  me  I  shall  have  to  get  unmarried 
first — somehow  or  other " 

"Where  is — this  man?" 

"I  don't  know,  darling.  .  .  .  This  was  how  it  all  oc- 
curred  " 

Now,  sullenly,  and  in  silence  he  listened  to  the  sordid 
story  of  the  marriage  of  Eris. 

She  told  it  without  resentment — and  with  the  candour 
and  brevity  of  a  child. 

Always  it  had  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had  been 
merely  a  witness  of  the  miserable  affair  and  not  personally 
concerned.    And  she  told  it  in  that  manner. 

"You  see,  it  really  doesn't  count,"  she  concluded.  "I  was 
so  ignorant  that  it  meant  nothing  to  me  at  the  time.  I 
scarcely  ever  think  of  it,  now.  Barry.  ...  I  want  you  to 
love  me.  .  .  .  But  if  you  had  rather  not  marry  me " 

He  reddened :  "What  alternative  do  you  suggest?" 

"Why — ^this! — ^as  we  are.  ...  It  leaves  us  both  free  to 
work " 

''That  is  your  ruling  passion,"  he  said  blimtly,  " — work!" 

"If  we  don't  marry,  I  can  have  you,  and  work,  too " 

"Do  you  think  me  narrow  enough,  selfish  enough,  to  inter- 
fere with  your  career  if  you  marry  me?" 

She  answered  gravely:  "I  wasn't  afraid  of  that.  ...  I 
was  afraid  of — children — if  I  marry  you.  .  .  .  dearest." 


E  R I  S  219 

"But  if "  Then  the  candour  of  her  chaste  self-revela- 
tion grew  clear  to  him — her  exquisite  ignorance,  her  virgin 
confidence  in  the  heavenly  inviolability  of  love. 

"Do  you  understand,  Barry?" 

"I  think  so." 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  "unmarried  I  can  go  and  still 
have  you.  .  .  .  But  careers  often  end  when  children  come." 

"Don't  you  ever  want  them,  Eris  ?" 

"Well — as  I've  never  had  any,  isn't  it  natural  I  should 
prefer  you  and  a  career  to  you  and  a  baby?" 

"I  suppose  it  is." 

"Not  that  I  don't  care  for  children,"  she  murmured.  Her 
grey  eyes  grew  remote;  a  hint  of  tenderness  curved  her  lips, 
and  she  smiled  faintly  to  herself. 

"We'll  try  out  your  idea  first,"  he  said,  " — the  combina- 
tion you  prefer, — ^your  work  first,  then  me.  .  .  .  Our  life 
will  pass  in  one  endless  courtship." 

"Could  anything  be  lovelier !"  she  cried,  enchanted. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

TF  Annan  supposed  he  was  to  see  Eris  frequently  dur- 
■*•  ing  those  first  enchanted  days,  he  presently  realised  his 
mistake.     She  was  working  under  pressure  at  the  studio. 

Pressure,  due  to  laziness  and  ignorance,  seldom  bears  hard 
on  the  incompetents  who  cause  it.  In  this  case  it  was  due 
to  hasty  organization  and  Mr.  Creevy's  direction.  And  Eris 
was  always  about  to  take  a  train  when  Annan  called  her  on 
the  telephone, — always  starting  "on  location,"  or  "working 
late  at  the  studio,"  or  kept  idle  awaiting  "re-takes." 

These  phrases  began  to  irritate  Annan;  but  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  he  could  do  about  it. 

In  New  York,  theatres  were  closing  for  the  summer; 
roofs  and  beaches  opening;  synthetic  fruit-drinks  appeared. 
June  did  her  pathetic  best  for  the  noisy,  shabby  city  in  park 
and  square ; — put  on  her  prettiest  in  green  leaves  and  blos- 
soms. The  Park  Department  ruined  the  effort  with  red 
and  yellow  cannas.  God  knows  whether  New  York's  dull 
and  bovine  eyes  notice  such  things  at  all.  Does  the  ox  notice 
the  wild  flowers  he  chews,  or  the  ass  admire  the  thistle 
blossoms  before  munching?  But  why  New  York  is  not 
nauseated  by  its  floral  display  remains  a  mystery. 

The  only  dose  the  aborigine  notices  is  an  emetic.  But 
even  red  and  yellow  cannas  in  combination  left  New  York's 
bowels  unaff^ected. 

Still,  ailanthus  and  catalpa  in  Governor's  Place  spread 
once  more  their  cool,  green  pools  of  shade  over  parched  side- 
walks ;  ampelopsis  on  Annan's  house  and  an  ancient  wistaria 

220 


ERIS  221 

twisted  over  the  iron  balcony  did  their  missionary  part  to 
touch  the  encysted  hearts  of  those  who  'have  eyes  but  see 
not.'  A  white  butterfly  or  two  fluttered  through  Gover- 
nor's Place. 

Annan's  house,  stripped  for  summer,  was  cool  and  dusky 
and  still,  haunted  by  a  starched  and  female  phantom  that 
flitted  through  the  demi-light  in  eternal  quest  for  moth  and 
dust  and  rust. 

The  only  inclination  of  a  man  really  in  love  is  to  keep  at 
work  in  the  absence  of  the  beloved.  Nothing  else  helps  to 
slay  the  intolerable  hours  and  days. 

It  was  thus  with  this  young  man.  Eris  on  location  was 
so  tragic  a  calamity  that  he  could  endure  it  only  by  rush- 
ing headlong  into  the  clutch  of  literature. 

All  day,  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  pen  in  hand,  he 
scratched  madly  at  a  pad. 

Nourishment  was  set  before  him  at  proper  intervals;  he 
ate  it  at  improper  intervals. 

But  the  pinched  look  had  left  his  youthful  and  agreeable 
features  and  shadows  were  gone  from  cheek  and  temple. 

Every  day  he  wrote  a  morning  and  an  evening  letter  to 
Eris.  And  no  doubt  it  was  her  letters  to  him  that  were 
feeding  him  fat. 

Sometimes  Colt  foot  dropped  in  to  lounge  in  an  arm-chair 
and  smoke  his  pipe  and  lazily  observe  the  younger  man, 
flagrante  delicto  with  his  brazen  Muse. 

And  once  Rosalind  coolly  invaded  his  threshold,  an- 
nounced with  a  sniff  by  the  Starched  One. 

Rosalind  wanted  a  cocktail  and  lunch.  She  sat  on  the 
edge  of  Annan's  writing  table,  swinging  one  trim  foot,  in- 
terrupting breezily  when  it  suited  her,  or  satisfying  her  ca- 
pricious curiosity  with  his  inky  copy. 

"Not  so  bad,"  she  drawled,  shuflling  a  dozen  unnumbered 
sheets  together  and  tossing  them  under  his  nose.  "Come  on, 
ducky,  and  talk  to  me  ere  we  feast  and  revel." 


222  E  R  I  S 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  your  lunch  when  it's  ready.  Until 
then  I  want  to  work.    Run  away  and  play,  Linda " 

"Play  nothing!  We're  closed  for  the  summer.  Mom's 
gone  to  the  mountains  and  I'm  queen  of  the  flat.  I  sleep 
most  of  the  time.  Lay  off,  ducky,  and  converse  with  your 
little  lonely  Linda " 

"Wait  a  second,  will  you "  he  protested.     "Let  my 

papers  alone " 

"No,  not  a  second  will  I  wait — not  a  heart-throb!  Re- 
gardez-moi,  beau  jeune  homme.    Ayez  pitie  de  moi ** 

She  leaned  over,  patted  his  crisp  hair,  joggled  his  pen, 
gave  a  fillip  to  his  nose. 

"Betsy's  going  to  Paris,"  she  said.  "What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

"Why  don't  you  go  too?" 

"You  want  to  get  rid  of  me?  You  can't.  By  the  way, 
how's  your  solemn  friend,  Mr.  Coltfoot?" 

"All  right,"  he  murmured,  scratching  away  on  his  copy. 

"And  Eris  ?    Do  you  ever  see  her,  Barry  ?" 

"Now  and  then." 

"Is  it  all  over?" 

"What?" 

"Your  affair  with  her " 

"Can  it,  Rosalind ! " 

"Yovire  the  canner,  my  fickle  friend.  We're  all  pickles 
and  you  jarred  us.  .  .  .  Sour  pickles.  .  .  .  When  you're 
through  with  a  girl  she's  a  schmeer. 

"Look  at  me !  I'm  a  schmeer.  I  was  innocent  and  happy 
till  you  came  schmoozing.  .  .  .  You  know  what  I  hear  about 
Eris?" 

No  answer. 

"Albert  Smull  is  crazy  about  her.  .  .  .  He's  married,  isn't 
he?" 

"Yes." 

"They're  the  fancy  devils,  aren't  they? — those  red-necked, 
ruddy-jowled,   hand-groomed  Wall   Street   Romeos.     But 


E  R I  S  223 

there's  just  a  vulgar  suspicion  of  the  natty  and  jaunty  about 
them ; — and  their  chins  are  always  shaved  blue " 

"Confound  it "  he  exclaimed,  "can't  you  let  me  finish 

this  page  ?" 

"Don't  you  like  gossip,  ducky  ?"  she  inquired  with  a  baby 
stare. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  while  a  scrowl  struggled  with  an 
unwilling  smile. 

"His  Greatness,"  she  said,  "looks  hungry.  When  do  we 
trifle  with  rare  wines  and  sparkling  fruits?  Oh — and  that 
reminds  me,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  suitor — you  know 
him — Wilkes  Bruce,  the  painter  .  .  .  just  to  show  you  how 
a  man  sometimes  cans  himself.  There  are  two  words  that 
all  fakes  love  to  hand  a  girl. 

"He  was  making  a  hit  with  me  at  the  Ritz,  and  I  was 
showing  him  that  scarab  ring  you  tell  me  is  phony ;  and  he 
suddenly  said  those  two  words — said  'em  both  in  one 
breath ! — 'Indubitably/  says  he,  'this  is  a  veritable  antique  1' 
The  two  words  1  .  .  .  I'm  off  that  schmeer,"  she  added. 

Annan  wanted  to  yawn  but  stifled  the  indiscretion. 

"You  know,"  she  drawled,  "I'm  sorry  for  Eris." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  she  has  picked  a  bum  in  Ratford  Creevy,  and  in 
that  Dutch  souse,  Emil  Shunk.  It  isn't  agreeable  to  work 
with  such  people.  .  .  .  And  I  fancy  Smull  is  beginning  to 
bother  her,  too." 

A  slight  colour  stained  Annan's  temples:  "Why  do  you 
fancy  that?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  One  notices  and  hears.  He's  always 
on  her  heels,  always  schmoozing  around.  Of  course  there's 
gossip,  there  always  is.  But  that's  the  kind  of  man  Smull 
is.  .  .  .  And  there  you  are." 

"Is  he— that  kind?" 

"Well,  he  tried  it  on  Betsy.  Imagine!  On  Betsy,  my 
dear!" 

"What  happened?'* 


224  E  R  I  S 

"Why,  she  told  him  to  go  to  the  devil.  And  he  backing 
her !    Can  you  imagine  ?" 

"I  hope  I  can." 

"They're  mostly  that  sort,  ducky — ^Jewa  and  Gentiles. 
.  .  .  It's  a  good  thing  I  have  Mom.  All  I  have  to  do  is 
whistle  her.    Run?    It  would  surprise  you." 

Luncheon  was  announced. 

He  nodded,  absently.  .  .  .  He  was  rather  silent  during 
luncheon.  But  Rosalind  departed  rather  pleased  with  her- 
self. 

That  night,  writing  to  Eris,  he  said:  "If  ever  anything 
disagreeable  happens  to  annoy  you,  I  want  you  to  come  to 
me  with  it  immediately." 

Commenting  on  this,  from  the  Berkshires :  "Everything  is 
gay  and  nothing  is  disagreeable.  Mr.  Smull  came  up  and 
we  had  a  picnic  near  Williamstown — the  jolliest  party! — 
except  that  Mr.  Shunk  had  been  drinking  and  Mr.  Creevy's 
jokes  were  rather  vulgar.  But  a  girl  becomes  impervious  to 
such  details.  Only — I  miss  Frank  Donnell  and  the  nice, 
clean  people  in  Betsy's  company.  .  .  ." 

That  was  all.  And  Annan,  relieved,  yet  always  vaguely 
uneasy,  went  on  with  his  brand  new  story — scratched  away 
at  it,  biding  the  return  of  Eris. 

She  came  when  the  month  was  nearly  gone,  warning  him 
by  wire  of  her  train,  evidently  not  expecting  him  to  meet 
it,  for  she  asked  him  to  come  to  Jane  Street  for  dinner  at 
seven. 

He  never  had  gone  to  the  train  to  meet  Eris, — ^had  never 
even  thought  of  doing  it.  He  thought  of  it  now  and  won- 
dered why  he  never  before  had  done  so. 

By  telephone  he  ordered  flowers  to  be  sent  to  Jane  Street ; 
and,  a  few  minutes  before  six,  he  walked  into  the  Grand 
Central  Station  and  was  directed  to  the  exit  where  the  in- 
coming train  was  already  signalled. 


E  R I  S  225 

Outside  the  ropes,  where  people  had  gathered  to  wel- 
come arriving  friends,  Annan  encountered  Albert  Smull, 
As  usual  they  shook  hands.  Smull  wore  his  habitual  and 
sanguine  smile.    His  features  had  grown  into  it. 

"Saw  your  good  aunt  at  Newport,  Friday,"  he  said,  "but 
I  seldom  see  you  anywhere  these  days,  Annan." 

"I  don't  go  about.    How  is  it  at  Newport?" 

"Fine  weather "  Through  the  open  gates  the  train 

glided  into  view.  "Thought  I'd  come  down  and  see  how 
our  picture  people  are  looking  after  their  tour  on  location," 
said  Smull.  "You  know  some  of  them,  Annan — ^you've 
met  our  clever  little  Eris  ?" 

Annan  turned  and  deliberately  looked  him  over  from  his 
ruddy  jowls  to  the  polished  tan  shoes. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I've  known  Miss  Odell  for  some 
time.    I'm  here  to  meet  her." 

Smull's  sanguine  face  slowly  took  on  a  heavier  red  but 
the  set  smile  remained. 

"Bright  kid,"  he  said,  " — getting  away  with  it,  Creevy 
tells  me.  Shill  and  I  are  putting  a  lot  of  money  into  this 
picture " 

Passengers  from  the  train  just  arrived  were  now  pouring 
out  of  the  exit,  recognising  waiting  friends  behind  the 
ropes,  signalling  them  with  eager  gestures,  hurrying  around 
the  barriers  to  meet  them. 

Annan,  ignoring  Smull,  and  intently  scanning  the  throng, 
finally  perceived  Ratford  Creevy  and  Emil  Shunk.  Behind 
them,  in  the  crowd,  were  other  faces  slightly  familiar — 
members  of  the  cast — and  suddenly  he  sav/  Eris  in  a  tur- 
quoise blue  toque  and  summer  gown,  carrying  her  satchel, — 
a  lithe,  buoyant  figure,  moving  quickly  through  the  gates 
followed  by  a  red-cap  with  her  luggage. 

Smull,  perhaps  not  caring  to  bend  too  much  at  the  waist, 
went  around  the  rope ;  Annan  stooped  under  it. 

"Barry !"  she  exclaimed  in  happy  surprise. 


226  E  R  I  S 

"It's  been  a  thousand  years,"  he  said.  "I've  a  taxi 
here " 

Smull,  smiling  eagerly  out  of  dark  eyes  set  a  trifle  too 
closely,  and  carrying  his  straw  hat  in  his  hand,  confronted 
them. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Smull,"  said  Eris  gaily,  withdraw- 
ing her  gloved  hand  from  Annan's  and  offering  it  to  Smull. 

"You're  looking  fine,  Eris,"  he  said,  with  too  cordial 
familiarity.  "I  just  passed  Creevy  and  he  says  everything 
went  big.    Glad  you're  back,  little  lady.    I've  a  car  here " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Smull " 

The  girl  turned  to  Annan:  "Mr.  Smull  wired  me  that 
he'd  meet  our  train.  ...  So  thank  you,  too — for  asking 
me.  .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  you  have  troubled  to  keep  a  taxi 
waiting  for  me " 

Smull,  always  smiling,  turned  to  Annan:  "Can't  we  drop 
you  somewhere,  old  chap  ?" 

Annan  said:  "Thanks,  no."  And,  looking  at  Eris  with 
cool  curiosity,  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  back,"  he  said.  "I  hope  I  may  see 
you  while  you're  here.    Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  she  replied,  as  though  slightly  confused. 

Annan  bowed  pleasantly,  including  them  both,  and  turned 
to  the  left  along  the  rope.  The  girl  went  rather  slowly  away 
beside  Smull,  followed  by  the  red-cap  with  her  luggage. 

Outside  the  station,  on  the  ramp  above,  Annan  found  his 
taxi  and  got  into  it.  All  the  way  home  he  stared  persistently 
at  the  chauffeur's  frowsy  head ;  but,  whatever  his  thoughts, 
nothing  on  his  smoothly  composed  features  betrayed  them. 

As  he  entered  his  house  the  telephone  was  ringing,  and  he 
went  to  the  lower  one  in  the  butler's  pantry. 

"Barry!" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  coming  to  dinner  ?" 

"I  had  expected  to." 

"Could  you  come  now?" 


ERis  fan 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Why,  at  home,  of  course." 

"Alone?" 

"Alone! "  she  repeated.    "Why,  yes,  of  course  I  am 

alone.  I  said  seven,  but  I  want  you  now.  I  can't  wait.  Do 
you  mind?" 

"All  right,"  he  said  drily.  At  such  moments,  in  most 
young  men  in  love,  the  asinine  instinct  dominates. 

Still  chilled  by  the  unpleasant  impression  of  an  intimacy, 
the  natural  existence  of  which  he  had  never  thought  about, 
he  went  to  his  room  and  got  into  a  dinner  jacket,  sulkily. 

As  he  was  dressing  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  was  one 
sample  of  the  sort  of  thing  he  was  very  likely  to  encounter. 
A  rush  of  boyish  jealousy  and  resentment  flushed  his  face — 
irritation  that  the  world  should  entertain  any  doubt  as  to  his 
proprietary  right  in  this  girl. 

It  was  high  time  that  the  world  made  no  mistake  about  it. 
Men  of  Albert  Smull's  sort  had  better  understand  what  was 
his  status  vis-a-vis  with  Eris. 

Intensely  annoyed — and  without  any  reason,  as  he  real- 
ised— he  went  out  in  a  characteristically  masculine  frame  of 
mind,  hailed  a  disreputable  taxi  on  Greenwich  Avenue,  and 
drove  to  Jane  Street. 

The  declining  sun,  not  yet  low  enough  to  transmute  its 
ugliness  to  terms  Tumeresque,  searched  out  every  atom  of 
shabbiness  and  squalor  in  the  humble  street.  And  it  all 
added  to  his  sullen  dissatisfaction. 

"One  thing,"  he  muttered;  " — she's  got  to  get  out  of  this 
dirty  district.    It's  no  place  for  the  girl  I'm  going  to  marry." 

Fat  Hattie  admitted  him,  simpering  her  welcome : 
"Yuh  flowers  done  come,  Mistuh  Annan.  They's  just 
grand,  suh.  Miss  Eris  she's  taking  a  bath.  She  says  foh 
you  to  go  into  the  settin'  room,  Mistuh  Annan,  Might  I 
off  ah  yuh  the  hospitality  of  some  Sherry  wine,  Mistuh  An- 
nan?" 


ERIS 

He  declined  and  went  in;  stood  looking  around  at  the 
plain,  familiar  place,  brightened  only  by  his  flowers. 

"Another  thing,"  he  thought  irritably,  " — this  installment- 
plan  furniture  has  got  to  go.  She  doesn't  seem  to  know 
what  nice  things  look  like.  .  .  .  She  hasn't  any  comforts 
in  her  bed-room,  either.  This  third-rate  existence  has  got 
to  stop." 

Unreasonably  glum  he  picked  up  the  evening  paper,  un- 
folded it,  stood  holding  it;  but  his  gaze  rested  on  her 
closed  door.  Then,  even  as  he  gazed,  it  opened  and  the 
girl  herself  came  out  in  a  soft  wool  robe  and  slippers,  her 
chestnut  hair  in  lovely  disorder. 

"Darling !"  she  said  with  the  breathless  smile  he  knew  so 
well.  "I  just  couldn't  wait.  I  was  so  afraid  you  were  an- 
noyed with  me " 

His  kiss  made  her  eager  explanation  incoherent;  she 
nestled  to  him,  dumb,  happy  in  the  physical  reunion,  wistfui 
for  the  spiritual,  seeking  it  in  his  face  with  questioning  grey 
eyes. 

"It  mustn't  happen  again,"  he  said.  "You're  mine,  Eris, 
and  people  have  got  to  understand." 

"Darling!  Of  course  I  am.  But  I  don't  quite  see  how 
people  are  going  to  understand " 

"We'll  talk  about  that  this  evening." 

"All  right.  .  .  .  Darling,  I  must  dress.  Oh,  Barry,  I'm 
so  glad — I'm  always  lonely  without  you,  wherever  I  go !" 

One  long,  deep  embrace — her  swift  ardour  leaving  him 
trembling — and  before  he  knew  it  her  door  had  slammed 
behind  her. 

From  within  her  bed-room :  "Your  letters  have  been  so 
wonderful,  Barry  darling!  They  made  work  delightful." 
.  .  .  The  excited  clatter  and  rustle  of  a  girl  in  a  hurry  came 
indistinctly  through  the  closed  door.  .  .  .  "It's  a  peach  of 
a  part,  Barry.  There  are  real  brains  in  it  ...  I  wish  I  had 
Frank  Donnell  to  tell  me " 

"Can't  Creevy  do  that?" 


ERIS  229 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  He  isn't  a  drill-master.  .  ,  .  Some- 
times I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  know. 

"It's  a  helpless  feeling,  Barry.  I  trusted  Frank.  I  knew 
I  could  lean  on  him.    But  Mr.  Creevy " 

"I  haven't  much  use  for  Creevy,  either,"  he  said  bluntly. 

She  opened  the  door.  He  found  her  seated  before  her 
little  mirror,  tucking  up  stray  crisp  curls.  She  wore  a  mauve 
dinner  gown — a  scant  affair — as  though  her  supple,  milk- 
white  body  were  lightly  sheathed  in  orchid  petals. 

She  stretched  back  her  head  to  him  where  he  stood  behind 
her;  he  kissed  her  soft  lips,  her  throat.  Leaning  so,  against 
him,  she  looked  hack  again  at  her  fresh  young  beauty  in  the 
mirror. 

"That  year  with  Frank  Donnell,"  she  murmured,  "is  sav- 
ing my  very  skin,  now.  I  don't  know  enough  to  go  ahead 
without  a  strong,  friendly  power  reassuring,  leading  me. 
Mr.  Creevy  lets  me  go  my  own  way,  or  loses  his  temi)er 
and  shouts  at  me." 

"He's  rather  a  cheap  individual,"  remarked  Annan. 

"He's  always  shouting  at  us.  .  .  .  And  I  haven't  much 
confidence  in  Emil  Shunk,  either.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  long  for 
Frank,  and  for  that  nice,  kind  camera-man,  StoU !  To  work 
with  gentlemen  means  so  much  to  a  girl." 

"It  means  that  she  can  do  her  best  work,"  said  Annan. 
"In  other  words,  it's  bad  business  to  employ  a  pair  of  vul- 
garians like  Rat  ford  Creevy  and  Emil  Shunk  to  direct  decent 
j)eople  in  a  decent  picture." 

"I  seem  to  have  no  point  of  contact  with  them,"  she 
admitted.  "Betsy's  company  was  so  respectable, — and  even 
the  Crystal  Films  people  were  so  decent  to  me  that  I  didn't 
expect  to  encounter  film  folk  as  common  and  horrid  as  I 
have  met.  .  .  .  And  the  Jews  are  no  worse  than  the  Gen- 
tiles, Barry." 

"Gentile  or  Jew,"  he  said,  " — who  cares  in  these  days  how 
an  educated  gentleman  worships  God?  But  a  Christian 
blackguard  or  a  Jewish  blackguard,  there's  the  pair  that  are 


«80  E  R  I  S 

ruining  pictures,  Eris.  Whether  they  finance  a  picture, 
direct  it,  release  it,  exhibit  it,  or  act  in  it,  these  two  vermin 
are  likely  to  do  it  to  death. 

"Your  profession  is  crawling  with  them.  It  needs  de- 
lousing.  It's  all  squirming  with  parasites.  They  carry 
moral  leprosy.  They  poison  audiences.  Some  day  the  pub- 
lic will  kill  them." 

Eris  stood  up  and  linked  her  arms  in  Annan's:  "It's  so 
stupid,"  she  said  " — a  w^onderful  art — and  only  in  its  in- 
fancy— and  already  almost  monopolised  by  beastly  people. 
.  .  .  Well,  there  are  men  like  Frank  Donnell.  .  .  .  And,  as 
for  the  rest  of  us — as  far  as  I  can  judge  the  vast  majority 
among  us  appreciate  decency  and  have  every  inclination  to- 
ward it.  ...  I  don't  know  a  woman  in  my  profession  who 
leads  an  irregular  life  from  choice." 

"It's  that  or  quit,  sometimes,  I  suppose,"  he  said  gravely. 

"I've  heard  so.  .  .  .  Before  I  knew  anything  I  used  to 
hold  such  a  girl  in  contempt,  Barry.     I  know  better,  now." 

"With  all  your  passion  for  learning,"  he  said,  "did  you 
ever  suppose  there  was  such  sorry  wisdom  to  acquire?" 

"Oh,  yes.     I  guessed,  vaguely.    One  can't  live  in  a  little 

village  without  guessing  some  things Or  on  a  farm 

without  guessing  the  rest.  .  .  .  It's  best  to  know,  always. 
.  .  .  Lies  shock  me;  but,  do  you  know,  truth  never  did. 
Truth  has  frightened  me,  disgusted,  angered,  saddened  me. 
But  it  never  shocked  me  yet.  ...  I'm  afraid  you  think  me 
hardened " 

His  arm  drew  her  and  she  turned  swiftly  to  his  lips — in 
full  view  of  Hattie  in  the  dining-room  beyond. 

"I  don't  care,"  whispered  Eris,  her  cheeks  scarlet,  " — she 
ought  to  guess  what  we  are  to  each  other  by  this  time." 

As  he  seated  her  he  said:  "If  she  does  know  she  knows 
more  than  I  do,  Eris.  .  .  .  What  are  we  to  each  other?" 

He  took  his  chair  and  she  laughed  at  him. 

"I'm  serious,"  he  repeated.    "What  are  we  to  each  other  ?" 

"Darling!     Are  you  trying  to  be  funny?" 


E  R I  S  231 

"Not  a  bit.     Please  answer  me,  Eris." 

"Ridiculum!" 

"Answer  me !" 

"Why — ^why,  you  goose,  we  are  in  love  with  each  other. 
Isn't  that  the  answer?" 

"Are  you  engaged  to  me?" 

"Darling! " 

"Are  you?" 

"Why— no." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  know  one  reason,  anyway." 

"You  mean  that  fellow,"  he  said  with  a  shrug. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

They  remained  rather  silent  for  a  while.  Presently  he 
said: 

"Merely  to  be  in  love  with  each  other  doesn't  place  either 
of  us  definitely." 

"Place  us  ?"  she  repeated,  perplexed.  "It  places  us  with 
each  other,  doesn't  it?" 

"But  not  with  the  world." 

She  considered  this  while  covers  were  removed  and 
another  course  laid. 

"Darling,  do  you  mind  carving  that  chicken?  If  you  don't 
want  to,  Hattie  can  take  it  to  the  kitchen " 

"Watch  me,"  he  boasted,  impaling  the  tender,  roasted 
bird  and  shaving  a  smoking  slice  from  its  sternum. 

"Wonderful,"  she  murmured,  clasping  her  snowy  fingers ; 
"he  knows  ever3rthing,  does  everything.  And  he  asks  me 
where  it  places  him !  ...  It  places  you,  darling,  like  a  god, 
under  lock  and  key  inside  the  secret  shrine  of  my  innermost 
heart." 

"No,"  he  said,  "that  temple  is  already  reserved.  It's  oc- 
cupied by  the  real  and  only  god  you  worship.  .  .  .  The  god 
of  Work!" 

After  a  moment  she  raised  her  eyes,  tenderly  apprehen- 
sive: 


232  E  R  I  S 

"I  do  love  you,  Barry." 

"But  you  worship  the  other  one.  .  .  .  You  can't  serve 
two  gods." 

"I  worship  you,  too,  whatever  you  say !" 

"I'm  a  minor  deity  compared  to  the  great  god  Work." 

"Darhng — don't  speak  that  way — even  in  jest " 

"I  want  a  shrine  for  myself.  I  won't  interfere  with  the 
other  god " 

" — When  I  tell  you  you're  the  only  man  in  the 
world ! " 

"I  want  you  to  engage  yourself  to  me.  You  can  take 
your  time  about  marrying  me  if  you're  afraid  it  will  spoil 
your  career.    But  I  want  the  world  to  know  we're  engaged." 

"Why,  dear?"  she  asked  in  uneasy  surprise. 

"Because  that  will  place  us  both,  definitely." 

"Goodness,"  she  murmured  uncertainly,  "I  didn't  sup- 
pose that  falling  in  love  was  so  complicated.  .  .  .  Darling! 
I  haven't  time  to — to  find  out  how  to  get  rid  of  that  man, 
now;  or  do  it,  either " 

"It  will  have  to  be  done  sooner  or  later,"  he  insisted. 
"And  that's  that,  as  you  say." 

Until  coffee  was  served  they  spoke  rarely  and  of  other 
matters. 

After  coffee,  in  the  living-room,  she  brought  out  a  packet 
of  stills  to  show  him.  They  went  over  them,  minutely,  con- 
sulting, criticising,  she  explaining  every  picture  and  its 
relation  to  the  continuity. 

"You  should  hear  Mr.  Creevy  bellow,  'Hold  it!  Hold  it! 
D'ye  think  I  told  you  to  shimmy  ?'  Oh,  he  is  rough,  Barry. 
The  first  time  I  heard  him  bawl  out,  'Kill  that  nigger !'  I  was 
terrified :  I  thought  there  was  going  to  be  a  lynching " 

They  sat  laughing  uncontrollably  at  each  other. 

"You  imitate  Creevy's  cracked  contralto  voice,"  said  An- 
nan.   "I  didn't  know  you  were  a  mimic,  Eris." 

"Didn't  you?"  And  she  laughed  adorably.  Then,  sud- 
denly, Ratford  Creevy's  high-pitched,  irritated  voice  came 


E  R I  S  233 

again  from  her  lips  :  "  'Everybody!  Everybody!  Yaas,  you, 
too,  you  poor  dumbbell !  Get  on  there.  .  .  .  Eris !  Eris !  My 
Gawd,  where's  that  amateur!  .  .  .  Well,  where  were  you? 
.  .  .  Well,  stand  up  next  time.  .  .  .  Lights!  .  .  .  Hey, 
where's  that  amateur  camera-man.  .  .  .  Where  the  hell's 
Shunk?    Emil!    Emil! '" 

His  laughter  and  her  own  checked  her  and  she  leaned 
back,  the  stills  sliding  from  her  lap  to  the  floor. 

Together  they  squatted  down  like  two  children  to  gather 
the  litter  of  scattered  photographs,  interrupting  to  touch 
lips,  lightly;  and  finally  he  dumped  the  stills  onto  a, table  and 
drew  her  to  the  lounge  and  gathered  her  close. 

"You  know,  sweet,  the  reasonable  goal  of  real  love  is 
marriage.    Don't  you  know  that?" 

"Darling!" 

"Isn't  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  uncertainly. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  insisted. 

"Sometimes." 

"Always,  ultimately.    You  realise  that,  don't  you,  Eris  ?" 

"Y-es.  .  .  .  Ultimately  it's  the  goal.    But " 

"You  love  me  enough  to  marry  me,  don't  you?" 

"Now?" 

"No,  not  now.    Ultimately." 

She  said,  pitifully :  "I  love  you  enough  to  marry  you  this 
moment.  .  .  .  But  even  if  I  were  free  you  wouldn't  ask  it, 
would  you,  Barry?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  looked  intently  at  her.  "It  wouldn't 
be  any  use,  anyway,"  he  concluded.  "Your  work  is  more  to 
/ou  than  I  am.    Isn't  it?" 

The  girl  laid  her  face  against  his  shoulder  in  silence. 

"It's  your  ruling  passion,  Eris,  isn't  it?" 

"I — suppose  so.  .  .  .  But  there  never  can  be  any  other 
man  than  you." 

"You  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  your  work,  but  you 
wouldn't  sacrifice  your  work  for  me,  would  you,  Eris?" 


^34  E  R  I  S 

Her  head  only  pressed  his  shoulder  closer. 

He  said:  "You've  starved  for  your  work,  gone  almost  in 
rags,  slept  in  public  parks " 

"I'd  do  these  for  you.  .  .  .  I'll  give  you  anything,  do  any- 
thing for  you — except " 

"Except  give  up  your  work,"  he  ended  drily. 

"I  couldn't  love  you  if  you  made  me  do  that,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"If  I  made  you  do  it?  Do  you  admit  I  could  make  you 
give  it  up  ?"  he  demanded  almost  arrogantly. 

She  shrugged  slightly:  then  raised  her  head  and  looked 
dumbly  into  his  hard  eyes. 

There  are  dumb  creatures  that  let  themselves  be  slain 
without  resistance;  but  in  their  doomed  eyes  is  something 
that  the  slayer  never,  never  can  forget. 

And,  as  Annan  looked  at  this  girl,  something  of  his 
masculine  egotism  and  arrogance  became  troubled. 

He  said  in  a  more  subdued  voice :  "After  you  are  firmly 
established  in  your  profession,  we  can  think  about  marriage, 
can't  we?" 

"I  always  think  about  it.  ...  I  often  wonder  if  you  can 
wait." 

"I  suppose  that  I  must.  .  .  .  How  long,  Eris?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Darling!     I  don't  know " 

Suddenly  she  took  his  head  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him 
passionately,  strained  him  to  her  convulsively. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  have  a  living  corpse  for  a  wife," 
she  said  tremulously.  "That's  what  I'd  be  if  I  stopped  work 
now.  I'd  be  a  dead,  inert,  mindless  thing.  I  couldn't  love. 
Let  us  go  on  this  way.  I  must  have  my  freedom.  .  .  .  I'll 
come  to  you  when  I'm  ready,  Barry.  .  .  .  There'll  come  a 
time  when  I'll  have  to  have  you  to  go  on  at  all.  I'll  not  be 
able  to  work  without  you.  .  .  .  There'll  come  such  a  time. 
....  Then,  if  I  don't  have  you,  I  shall  be  unable  to  work 
at  all.  .  .  .  Work  will  stop.  I  know  it.  ...  If  only  you 
will  understand.  .  .  ." 


E  R I  S  235 

It  seemed  that  he  did  understand.  He  said  he  did,  any- 
way. But  he  also  wanted  their  engagement  to  be  under- 
stood. And  she  promised  him  to  consult  his  lawyer  as  soon 
as  work  permitted  and  find  out  what  could  be  done  to  elimi- 
nate from  her  life  the  last  traces  of  Eddie  Carter,  alias  E. 
Stuart  Graydon. 

For  Eris  never  expected  to  lay  eyes  again  upon  the  nimble 
Mr.  Graydon. 

But  it  is  the  unexpected  that  usually  happens,  particularly 
if  it's  disagreeable. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

HER  first  picture — from  a  popular  novel  of  the  hour 
called  "The  Bird  of  Prey" — was  finished  and  ready 
for  cutting,  except  for  picking  up  a  mass  of  ragged 
ends. 

Few  sets  had  been  knocked  down,  for  there  were  retakes 
necessary — accidents  due  to  Shunk  or  to  Creevy,  and  charged 
to  everybody  else  from  door-keeper  to  star. 

The  barn-like  studio  was  in  disorder  and  it  rang  all  day 
with  a  hell  of  dissonance — infernal  hammering,  trample  of 
heavy  feet,  the  racket  of  hoarse  voices,  scrape  of  props  and 
electric  cables  over  the  wood  flooring,  and  the  high-pitched, 
spiteful  scolding  of  Rat  ford  Creevy — as  though  a  noisy 
mouth  could  ever  remedy  confusion  resulting  from  mental 
incapacity. 

Smull  came  every  day  to  take  Eris  to  lunch — such  fre- 
quent consultation  being  both  customary  and  advisable,  he 
informed  her. 

As  a  result  the  girl  was  a  target  for  gossip  and  curiosity, 
sneered  at  by  some,  leered  at  by  others,  but  generally  fawned 
on  because  of  suspected  "pull  with  the  main  guy."  Courted, 
flattered,  deferred  to  by  one  and  all,  she  was  inexperienced 
enough  to  believe  in  such  universal  friendliness,  innocent 
enough  to  entertain  no  suspicion  of  these  less-fortunates  who 
were  kind  to  her;  of  Albert  Smull's  unvarying  and  eager 
cordiality. 

The  girl  was  radiantly  happy,  despite  misgivings  regard- 
ing Mr.  Creevy. 

And,  as  far  as  that  gentleman's  incompetence  was  con- 
cerned, although  she  did  not  know  it  she  was  learning  a 

236 


ERIS  287 

courage  and  self-reliance  that  had  been  slower  coming  if 
she  had  remained  under  the  direction  of  Frank  Donnell. 

Artistically,  intellectually,  Eris,  from  sheer  necessity,  had 
made,  unconsciously,  a  vast  advance  amid  obstacles  and  con- 
ditions that  always  worried  and  sometimes  dismayed  her. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  taught  more  to  Creevy  than 
he  had  ever  taught  anybody. 

Like  a  good  field-dog,  the  bird-sense  and  instinct  being 
there,  with  a  little  training  she  had  begun  to  instruct  her  in- 
structor in  qualities  and  in  technique  entirely  imfamiliar  yet 
astonishingly  sound. 

A  mean  mind  accepts  but  resents.  Creevy  said  to  Smull, 
with  sufficient  cunning  to  insure  further  employment : 

"She  takes  her  head  and  wears  me  out.  Full  of  pep  but 
don't  know  anything.  All  the  same,  I'd  rather  handle  that 
kind.    If  you  want  me  to  go  on  with  her  I'll  guarantee  her." 

But  Smull  was  fretting  about  the  overhead.  He  had  the 
financier's  capacity  for  detail.  He  prowled  about  the  studio 
— when  he  could  take  his  eager  gaze  off  of  Eris — prying, 
peeping,  mousing,  snooping,  asking  misleading  questions  of 
employees,  gradually  informing  himself. 

He  put  Creevy  on  the  rack  over  the  books.  He  told  him, 
afways  with  his  fixed  and  sanguine  smile,  that  the  footage 
was  forty  per  cent,  unnecessary.  He  compared  the  cost 
of  sets  to  Frank  Donnell's  bill ;  the  cost  of  transportation  to 
the  same  item  in  Betsy  Blythe's  company.  Creevy  writhed, 
not  daring  to  show  resentment. 

But  he  did  worse;  he  pointed  out  that  Betsy  Blythe  had 
a  limousine  listed  on  Frank  Donnell's  account,  and  that  he 
had  cut  that  out  of  the  perquisites  of  Eris  and  substituted 
a  taxi. 

Of  course  Smull  knew  that.  He  had  connived  at  this  petty 
economy,  but  only  partly  from  meanness ;  for  it  gave  him  a 
better  excuse  to  offer  his  own  car.  And  he  cared  nothing 
about  the  girl's  convenience. 

He  said  to  Creevy:  "You  start  in  and  clean  up  this  pic- 


238  E  R I  S 

ture  by  the  end  of  the  week.  You  begin  to  cut  Monday 
next." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Smull.  But  I  better  start  Marc  Blither 
on  the  next " 

"What  next?" 

"The  next  picture.  You  have  the  continuity  and  direc- 
tor's script " 

"I  may  give  it  to  Frank  Donnell.  There  may  not  be 
another  Odell  picture,"  said  Smull,  smiling  fixedly. 

Creevy  said  nothing. 

"Usually,"  added  Smull,  "I  make  up  my  mind  at  my  own 
convenience  and  to  please  myself, — not  others." 

He  got  up  from  the  rickety  chair,  walked  to  the  outer 
door  of  the  dressing  rooms,  and  sent  word  to  Eris  that  his 
car  was  waiting  to  take  her  to  luncheon. 

She  appeared  presently  without  her  make-up,  Creevy  being 
uncertain  that  he  wanted  her  during  the  afternoon,  but  insist- 
ing that  she  "stick  around." 

As  they  went  down  the  steps  to  the  car — a.  glittering  affair 
with  two  men  on  the  box — Smull  took  the  girl  familiarly 
by  the  arm. 

"I  want  to  talk  over  the  next  picture  with  you  this 
evening,"  he  said.  "I'm  asking  Frank  Donnell  to  dine  with 
me  at  my  rooms.    Will  you  come?" 

She  halted  at  the  open  door  of  the  car  and  gave  him  a 
surprised  and  happy  look. 

"Frank  Donnell  ?  I'd  love  to  come.  But,  Mr.  Smull  I^ 
you  don't  mean  that  Mr.  Donnell  is  to  direct  me!** 

"We'll  see,"  he  smiled. 

"But— Betsy!    I  couldn't  do  that  to  her!'* 

Or  to  anybody,  she  might  have  added.  But  the  mere 
thought  of  Frank  Donnell  brought  pleasure  and  gratitude. 

"You're  so  wonderfully  kind,  Mr.  Smull,"  she  said  with 
another  radiant  look  as  he  aided  her  to  enter  the  car. 

As  he  got  in  after  her  a  pallid,  shabby  man  across  the 


ERIS  239 

street  watched  her  intently.  He  seemed  interested  in  Smull, 
too,  and  in  the  shining  car,  and  even  in  the  license  number. 
And  he  stood  looking  after  it  as  long  as  it  remained  in 
sight. 

That  afternoon  Eris  sat  idle  in  her  dressing  room,  read- 
ing, or  wandered  about  among-  electric  cables  and  lumber 
and  sets  while  Mr.  Creevy  tried  to  fill  in  and  supplement 
poor  directorship  with  little  fiddling  retakes. 

Emil  Shunk,  the  camera-man,  slightly  drunk,  had  turned 
very  sulky.  Most  of  the  afternoon  was  wasted  in  futile 
altercation  with  Creevy,  until  the  latter,  exasperated,  dis- 
missed everybody. 

The  taxi  allotted  to  Eris  took  her  back  to  the  city,  tired, 
disgusted,  and  a  little  nervous. 

The  last  profane  scene  between  Creevy  and  Shunk,  her 
all-day  idleness,  the  stifling  summer  heat  in  the  studio,  the 
jolting  drive  back  to  New  York  through  the  squalor  of  the 
river- front,  all  these  left  her  tired  and  depressed. 

In  her  own  apartment,  bathed,  freshened  of  the  city's 
penetrating  grime,  and  now  at  her  ease  in  a  cool  morning 
wrap,  she  sipped  the  tea  that  Hattie  brought  and  then 
stretched  out  on  the  sofa,  thankful  to  rest  body  and  mind. 

For  a  wonder,  Jane  Street  was  quiet  that  hot  afternoon. 
The  blessed  stillness  healed  her  ears  of  the  blows  of  sound ; 
she  lay  in  the  pleasant  demi-light  of  lowered  shades,  dis- 
inclined to  stir,  to  speak,  to  think. 

But  thinking  can  be  stopped  only  by  sleep.  She  remem- 
bered that  she  was  to  call  Annan  when  she  got  home.  Some- 
how she  didn't  feel  like  it. 

Lying  there,  her  hands  clasped  under  her  chestnut  curls, 
grey  eyes  widely  remote,  the  idle  thoughts  went  drifting 
through  her  mind,  undirected,  unchecked. 

Visions  of  the  past  glimmered,  went  out,  followed  by 
others  that  floated  by  like  phantoms — glimpses  of  White- 
water Farms,  of  her  father  in  his  spotless  milking- jacket, 


240  E  R I  S 

of  a  girl  standing  with  ears  stopped  and  eyes  desperately 
shut  while  the  great  herd-bull  died. 

Tinted  spectres  of  village  people  she  had  known  rose, 
slipped  away,  faded,  vanished ; — Mazie's  three  uncouth  sons, 
Si,  Willis,  and  Buddy — all  already  unreal  to  her,  as  though 
she  merely  had  heard  of  them ; — Dr.  Wand,  Dr.  Benson,  Ed. 
Lister,  always  redolent  of  fertilizer; — the  minister,  "Rev. 
Stiles" ; — and  then,  unbidden,  into  her  mind's  vague  picture 
stepped  a  trim,  graceful,  polite  young  man  with  agreeable 
voice  and  long,  clever  lingers  always  stained  with  nicotine  or 
acid — 

The  girl  sat  up  abruptly;  cleared  her  eyes  of  tangled  curls 
with  a  sudden  sweep  of  her  slim  hand  as  though  to  brush 
away  the  vision. 

As  she  looked  over  her  left  shoulder  at  the  mantle  clock 
her  telephone  rang. 

She  sprang  up,  suddenly  aware  that  she  had  but  a  few 
minutes  to  dress  and  go  to  meet  Frank  Donnell  at  the  apart- 
ment of  Albert  Smull. 

It  was  Annan  on  the  wire. 

"Hello,  dearest,"  she  said,  stifling  the  yawn  that  had  been 
threatening  since  she  aroused  herself  from  her  torpor. 

"I  thought  you  were  to  call  me  when  you  got  home,"  he 
said  in  a  dismal  voice  that  sounded  rather  hollow  to  her. 

"Forgive  me,  Barry  dear.  I  was  rather  fagged  and  I 
just  lay  down  on  the  sofa.  And  I  nearly  had  a  nightmare. 
t,  .  •.  Are  you  well,  darling?" 

"I'm  seriously  ill  and " 

"What !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Dying — to  see  you,  Eris." 

"You  mustn't  joke  that  way;  you  startle  me/*  she  said 
with  a  quick  breath  of  relief. 

"Would  you  wear  black  for  me?" 

"Please  don't  make  a  jest  of  it " 

"You  sweet  little  thing,"  he  said,  "will  you  dine  at  my 
place,  or  out,  or  shall  I  come " 


ERIS  Ml 

"Darling!    I'm  sorry." 

"You  haven't  made  an  engagement,  have  you?" 

"But  I  have,  dear." 

"Where?"  he  asked  impatiently.  It  was  none  of  his  busi- 
ness.   But  she  said : 

"Mr.  Smull  asked  me  to  dine  with  him  and  Frank  Donnell. 
Are  you  going  to  be  lonely,  dear?" 

"Where  are  you  dining?"  he  demanded  impatiently. 

She  did  not  resent  it:  "In  Mr.  Smull's  apartment." 

"Do  you  think  that's  the  thing  to  do?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Darling!    Isn't  it?" 

"Are  you  accustomed  to  dine  with  married  men  in  apart- 
ments which  they  maintain  outside  their  homes?" 

His  anger  and  insolence  merely  astonished  her : 

"Barry  dear,"  she  said,  "it  is  merely  a  business  matter. 
He  asked  me  to  meet  Frank  there  and  discuss  my  next  pic- 
ture.    I  can't  understand  why  you  seem  offended " 

"Do  you  think  it's  agreeable  for  me  to  expect  an  evening 
with  you,  and  suddenly  discover  that  you  have  arranged  to 
pass  it  with  Albert  Smull?" 

"I'm  sorry.  ...  I  can't  very  well  help  it " 

"It's  perfectly  rotten  of  you!"  he  retorted  in  a  blaze  of 
boyish  temper. 

"Barry  dear?" 

"What?" 

"You  mustn't  talk  that  way  to  me." 

"Then  don't  deserve  it " 

"Barry!" 

"Yes."  There  was  a  pause.  He  waited.  Then  her 
voice,  rather  low  and  quiet: 

"To  control  my  own  temper  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 
keep  reminding  myself  that  you  love  me.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
wouldn't  speak  that  way  if  you  didn't.  .  .  .  Perhaps  men 
are  that  way.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  I'm  not  dining  with  you.  .  .  . 
I'm  sorry  because  I'm  in  love  with  you.  .  .  .  And  always 
will  be.  .  .  .  Good-night,  dear." 


242  E  R  I  S 

"Eris!" 
"Yes,  dear." 

"I'm  ashamed — penitent — ^miserable.   I'm  rottenly  jeal- 
ous  " 


"Darling !    You  have  no  cause " 

"No.  But — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  alone  with  other 
men.  I  know  it's  all  right.  I  know  also  that  jealousy  is  a 
low-down,  common,  disgusting,  contemptible  emotion " 

"Barry !  I  want  you  to  be  properly  jealous  of  my  safety 
and  well-being.  I  adore  it  in  you,  you  funny,  delightful  boy ! 
I'm  not  experienced  with  men,  but  I'm  beginning  to  under- 
stand you.  Darling!  You  may  even  swear  at  me  if 
you  want  to — if  you  do  it's  because  you're  in  love 
with  me." 

The  girl,  laughing,  heard  the  boy  sigh :  "It's  doing  queer 
things  to  me,"  he  said,  " — this  love  business.  All  I  can 
think  of  is  you;  and  when  you're  away  I  just  dope  myself 
with  work.  ...  I  don't  mean  to  be  selfish " 

"I  want  you  to  be.  Be  a  perfect  pig  if  you  like,  darling. 
Bully  me,  threaten,  monopolise  me — oh,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
give  me  my  allotted  time  to  work,  learn,  and  make  good; 
and  then  I  promise — I  promise  you  all  that  is  within  me  to 
give — mind  and  soul,  Barry — utter  devotion,  gratitude  tm- 
measured,  all,  all  of  me — darling! " 

She  was  late, — nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour  late,  when 
she  arrived  at  Albert  Smull's  apartment  on  Park  Avenue. 

A  man  servant  directed  her  to  a  rear  room  fitted  amazing- 
ly like  the  boudoirs  she  had  read  about. 

It  was  a  charming  place  hung  with  a  sort  of  silvery  rose- 
silk  ;  and  on  an  ivory-tinted  dresser  everything  that  feminin- 
ity could  require,  brand  new  and  sealed. 

But  Eris  spent  only  a  moment  at  the  mirror,  and,  the  next, 
she  was  shaking  hands  with  Albert  Smull  in  a  delightful 
lounging  room,  slightly  aromatic  with  a  melange  of  flowers 
and  tobacco. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,"  she  said  with  smiling  concern. 


E  R  I  S  243 

"but  Fm  so  relieved  to  find  that  Mr.  Donnell  hasn't  yet  ar- 
rived." 

"We  won't  wait  dinner  for  him  anyway,"  said  SmuU 
with  his  near  and  eager  smile.  "He'll  have  to  take  his 
chances,  Eris.  ...  I  say,  you're  stunning  in  that  gown !" 

"Oh,  do  you  like  it?"  she  said  politely. 

He  repeated  emphatically  his  admiration;  seemed  inclined 
to  touch  the  black  fabric;  expatiate  on  fashion,  suitability, 
harmony  of  snowy  skin,  red  hair,  and  the  smartness  of  dead 
black — "Only  the  young  dare  wear  it,  and  usually  they're  too 
stupid  to  until  they're  too  old  to." 

A  grave- faced  servant  brought  three  cocktails. 

"Come,  now,  Eris,  it's  time  you  learned,"  he  insisted. 
"Be  a  good  fellow  and  you  won't  be  sorry.  I've  got  to 
drink  Frank's  cocktail  anyway.  You'll  have  it  on  your 
conscience  if  I  have  to  drink  yours  too!" 

To  be  rid  of  his  insistence  she  touched  her  lips  to  her 
glass,  set  it  back  on  the  tray,  and  wiped  her  lips  when  he 
wasn't  looking. 

Smull's  ruddy  visage  was  ruddier  after  the  third  cocktail. 
The  grave  servant  opened  two  folding  glass  doors;  Smull 
gave  his  arm  to  Eris. 

Everything  in  the  dining-room  was  suffused  in  a  glow 
merciful  to  age  and  exquisitely  transfiguring  mortal  youth 
into  angelic  immortality. 

The  sheer  beauty  of  the  flowers,  of  the  silver  and  glass; 
the  white  walls,  the  antique  splendour  of  mirror  and  paint- 
ing entranced  the  girl. 

Faultlessly  chosen,  perfectly  served,  the  dinner  progressed 
gaily,  and  without  the  visible  embarrassment  of  Eris  who, 
however,  was  conscious  of  a  vague  uneasiness,  and  who 
wondered  why  Frank  Donnell  did  not  arrive. 

There  was  champagne.  She  touched  the  glass  with  her 
lips,  but  all  his  gay  cajolery  and  persuasion  could  not  in- 
duce her  to  do  more. 

She  glanced  at  his  face  from  time  to  time,  noticing  the 


244  E  R  I  S 

deepening  colour  with  curiosity  but  without  uneasiness ;  al- 
ways politely  returning  the  fixed  smile  that  never  left  those 
two  little  blackish  brown  eyes  set  a  trifle  too  close  together. 

Politely,  too,  she  awaited  Smull's  introduction  of  the  sub- 
ject matter  to  be  discussed — the  reason,  in  fact,  and  the 
excuse  for  her  presence  at  this  man's  table. 

But  Smull  talked  of  other  matters, — trivial  matters, — such 
as  her  personal  beauty ;  the  personal  success  she  might  make 
over  sentimental  men  if  she  chose;  the  certain  surprise  and 
jealousy  of  other  women — but  what  women,  and  of  what 
sort  he  did  not  specify  or  make  very  clear. 

"You  ought  to  get  on,"  he  said,  almost  grinning. 

"I'm  trying  to,"  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  sure.    I  mean "    But  what  he  meant  seemed  to 

expire  on  his  heavy  lips  as  though  lack  of  vocabulary,  or 
perhaps  of  assurance,  left  him  dumb  for  the  moment. 

She  wondered  why  Frank  didn't  arrive.  Coffee  was  now 
to  be  served  in  the  lounge,  which  was  part  library,  part  living 
room. 

Eris  understood  she  was  to  rise :  Smull  joined  her  with  his 
familiar  arm  taking  possession  of  hers.  His  large,  hot  hand 
made  her  a  little  uncomfortable  and  she  was  glad  to 
free  her  bare  arm  and  retire  with  her  coffee  to  a  solitary 
arm-chair. 

The  grave- faced  servant  seemed  to  know  what  to  bring  to 
Mr.  Smull  in  addition  to  the  frozen  mint  offered  to  Eris — 
and  smilingly  declined. 

After  the  grave  one  had  retired  with  the  empty  coifee 
cups  and  had  closed  the  folding  glass  doors,  Eris  looked  en- 
quiringly at  Mr.  Smull,  awaiting  the  broaching  of  what  most 
closely  concerned  her. 

But  Smull,  half  draining  his  frosted  glass,  assumed  a  fa- 
miliarity almost  boisterous. 

"See  here,  Eris,  you're  not  going  to  get  on  unless  you're 
a  good  fellow.  You're  not  going  to  get  anywhere  if  you 
don't  learn  to  keep  up  your  end." 


E  R I  S  245 

"If  you  mean  ccx:ktails  and  champagne,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing, "I  can't  help  not  liking  them,  can  I?" 

"Certainly  you  can.  Once  you  get  the  first  glass  down 
you'll  begin  to  hke  it.  Come  on,  Eris!  Show  your  pep. 
I'll  have  Harvey  bring  you  some  champagne " 

"I'm  wondering,"  she  said,  "why  Frank  Donnell  doesn't 
come.    Have  you  any  idea,  Mr. " 

She  looked  up  as  she  spoke,  and  fell  silent.  Smull's  fixed 
smile  had  become  a  fixed  grin.  Out  of -a  red,  puffy  face  two 
darkish  little  eyes  rested  on  her  with  disconcerting  intent- 
ness. 

"Look  here,  Eris,  we  don't  need  Frank  Donnell.  It's  up 
to  me,  after  all.    Isn't  it?" 

Her  lips  unclosed,  a  trifle  stiffly:  "Why  yes,  I  suppose 
so " 

"Well  then!" 

She  met  his  grin  with  a  forced  smile. 

"Well  ?"  she  enquired,  "have  you  chosen  to  discuss  mat- 
ters with  me  alone?" 

"You  bet.  That's  right,  Eris.  That's  what.  You  get 
my  first  curve  for  a  homer,  little  girl." 

He  hunched  his  chair  nearer  to  hers:  "Look  here,  Eris; 
you  can  have  pretty  nearly  what  you  want  out  of  me.  You 
want  your  own  company  for  keeps  ?  O.  K. !  You  want 
to  pick  your  director  and  your  camera-man  ?  That's  O.  K. 
You  want  Frank  Donnell?     Sure! " 

"But  Betsy " 

"Don't  worry.  I  pay  his  salary.  I  pay  hers,  too.  If  you 
want  Frank " 

"No,  I  don't.    I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing " 

"Puff!  She'd  do  it  to  you.  Didn't  she  put  you  out  of 
her  company !" 

"She  was  right.    It  was  perfectly  understood  by  me " 

"Say,  sweetness,  don't  you  let  anybody  put  that  over. 
Betsy  couldn't  stand  your  competition  and  she  canned  you. 
Now  you  can  get  back." 


246  E  R  I  S 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  SmuU,  but  I  couldn't.  .  .  .  Not  that 
I — I  care  for  Mr.  Creevy  very  much " 

"Bing !  He's  out !  Who  do  you  want  ?"  He  hunched  his 
chair  closer:  "And  say,  sweetness,  are  you  getting  enough 
per?" 

"What?" 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  your  contract?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  a  raise  ?" 

She  said,  rather  bewildered:  "I  have  signed  for  three 
years " 

"Blaa!  What's  a  contract!  You  can  have  them  both. 
Stick  'em  in  the  fire.    Is  that  right  ?" 

"But " 

"Listen,  my  dear.  You  ought  to  get  what  Blythe's 
getting  the  first  year.  After  that  we'll  see.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"It  is  too  kind  of  you " 

"Let  me  worry  over  that.  Are  we  set?  You  have  what 
you  want — anything  you  want.  You  fix  it  up  and  I'll  O.  K. 
it.    Is  that  right,  sweetheart?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  way.  He  left  his  seat, 
came  over,  seated  himself  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  As  she 
rose,  instinctively,  his  arm  brushed  her  bare  shoulder. 

And  now  he  also  stood  up,  his  hot,  red  features,  and  the 
g^in  and  the  little  darkish  eyes  very  close  to  her  face. 

"See  here,  Eris,"  he  said  thickly,  "I'm  crazy  about  you." 

A  slight  chill  possessed  her,  but  she  was  calm  enough. 
She  said:  "I'd  rather  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Smull." 

The  grin  never  altered:  "Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"For  one  thing,  if  you  honestly  cared  for  me  you  wouldn't 
have  brought  me  here  alone  to  say  so.  .  .  .  For  anoth- 
er  "  she  looked  at  him  curiously;  " — you  are  married, 

aren't  you  ?" 

"Is  that  going  to  matter  when  a  man's  crazy  about 
you " 


E  R I S  «47 

"Slightly,"  she  said. 

" — Crazy  enough,"  he  went  on,  ignoring  her  comment, 
" — crazy  enough  to  tell  you  to  hand  yourself  whatever  you 
fancy?  Do  you  get  me  right?  You  can  have  what- 
ever  " 

*'I  don't  want  anything,"  she  said  wearily,  moving  toward 
the  door. 

He  made  the  mistake  of  laying  hands  on  her — hot,  red, 
puffy  hands ;  and  she  struck  him  across  his  fixed  grin  with 
all  her  strength. 

Breathless,  motionless,  they  fell  back,  still  confronted.  A 
streak  of  bright  blood  divided  his  chin,  running  down  from 
his  mouth,  dripping  faster  and  faster  to  the  rug. 

He  got  out  his  handkerchief,  staunched  the  flow,  spoke 
while  the  handkerchief  grew  sopping  red : 

"That's  all  right,  sweetness.  Sorry  I  was  premature.  You 
take  your  time  about  it — take  all  the  time  you  need.  Then 
give  me  my  answer." 

"I'll  give  it  to  you  now,"  she  said  unsteadily. 

"I  don't  want  it  now,  Eris "     She  smiled:  "You've 

already  had  part  of  it.  The  rest  is  this :  I'm  engaged — or 
practically  so — to  a  man  I'm  going  to  marry  some  day.  .  .  . 
And,  as  to  what  you've  said  and  done  this  evening,  I'm  not 
very  much  shocked.  They  said  you  were  that  kind.  You 
look  it.  .  .  .  I'm  not  angry,  either.  The  whole  affair  is  so 
petty.  And  you  don't  seem  to  know  any  better.  I  think," 
she  added,  "that  I'm  more  bored  than  annpyed.  Good  night, 
Mr.  Smull." 

"Eris!" 

"What?" 

"If  I  were  divorced  would  you  marry  me?" 

"No,"  she  said  contemptuously.     "And  that's  that!** 

To  the  man  at  the  hall  door  she  said :  "Please  call  a  taxi 
for  Miss  Odell,"  and  passed  on  to  the  silver-rose  boudoit 
where  she  took  her  scarf  and  reticule  from  a  chair  and  tossed 
Smull's  orchids  onto  the  dresser. 


248  E  R  I  S 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  thought  to  herself,  " —  such  cheap,  such 
petty  wickedness!  If  I'm  out  of  a  job  it  will  complete  the 
burlesque." 

At  the  hall  door  the  servant  had  vanished  and  Smull  stood 
waiting. 

"I'm  sorry,  Eris,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry,  too.  You  won't  want  me  for  another  pic- 
ture, I  suppose." 

"Would  you  stay?" 

"I  have  to,  don't  I  ?    There's  my  contract,  you  know." 

"Good  God,  Eris,  I  didn't  realise  I  loved  you  seriously. 
I'm  half  crazed  by  this;  I — I  don't  know  what  to  do " 

"Then  let  me  suggest  that  you  talk  it  over  with  your 
wife,"  she  said.  "That  ought  to  be  a  household  remedy  for 
you,  Mr.  Smull." 

She  passed  him,  stepped  to  the  lift,  rang,  turned  and 
laughed  at  him  with  all  the  insolence  of  virgin  intolerance. 

"You  little  slut,"  he  said  in  a  distinct  voice  that  quivered, 
"I  don't  get  you  but  you've  played  me  for  a  sucker.  You're 
out !  Do  you  get  that  ?  Now  run  to  your  Kike  attorney 
with  your  contract ! — God  damn  your  soul !" 

As  she  stepped  into  the  lift  she  thought :  " — Burlesque  and 
all."  But  the  strain  was  telling  and  she  was  close  to  tears 
as  she  went  out  into  Park  Avenue  and  got  wearily  into  her 
taxi-cab, 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Oh,  dear."  But 
reaction  was  tiring  her  to  the  edge  of  drowsiness.  She 
yawned,  wiped  the  unshed  tears  from  her  eyes  with  her  wisp 
of  a  handkerchief,  yawned  again,  and  lay  back  in  the  cab 
closing  the  grey  virgin  eyes  that  had  looked  into  hell  and 
found  the  spectacle  a  cheap  burlesque. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

TT  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock  when  Eris  arrived  at  Jane 
-■-  Street.  Gutters  stank;  the  heated  darkness  reeked  with 
the  stench  of  stables,  slops,  and  unwashed  human  bodies. 

Sidewalks  still  swarmed;  tenements  had  muted  and  dis- 
gorged ;  every  alley  spewed  women  and  men  in  every  stage 
of  undress.  Fat  females  with  babies  at  breasts  squatted  be- 
side dirty  doorsteps ;  dishevelled  hags  hung  out  of  open  win- 
dows, frowsy  men  sprawled  on  chairs,  or  nude  to  the  trows- 
ers,  looked  down  from  rusting  fire-escapes  at  a  screaming 
tumult  of  half-naked  children  shouting  and  dancing  in  the 
cataract  of  spray  from  a  hose  which  two  firemen  had  opened 
on  them  from  a  hydrant. 

Flares  burning  redly  on  push-carts  threw  smoky  glares 
here  and  there  as  far  as  Greenwich  Avenue,  where  the  light- 
smeared  darkness  was  turbulent  with  human  herd. 

Into  this  dissonance  and  clamour,  clothed  in  silk,  came 
Eris,  daughter  of  Discord.  As  in  a  walking  dream  she 
descended  from  her  taxi;  fumbled  in  her  silken  reticule  to 
find  the  fare;  paid,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  paying. 

As  she  turned  and  ascended  the  low  steps  of  her  house, 
still  searching  about  in  the  reticule  for  her  latch-key,  she 
became  aware  that  a  man  was  standing  in  the  vestibule. 

When  she  found  her  latch-key  she  glanced  up  at  the 
shadowy  shape. 

Then  the  man  uttered  her  name. 

Instantly  his  voice  awoke  in  her  ears  that  alarming  echo 
which  sometimes  haunted  her  dreams.  And  though  the 
man's  features  were  only  a  grey  blur  in  the  obscurity,  she 
knew  him  absolutely. 

249 


S50  ERIS 

For  an  instant  all  her  strength  seemed  to  leave  her  body, 
and  she  sagged  a  little,  sideways,  resting  against  the  vestibule 
wall. 

The  shock  lasted  but  a  second ;  blood  rushed  to  her  face ; 
without  a  word  she  straightened  up,  stepped  forward,  re- 
fitted her  latch-key, 

"Eris,"  he  whimpered,  "won't  you  speak  to  me?" 

As  she  wrenched  open  the  front  door,  light  from  the  hall 
gas-jet  fell  across  the  man's  pale  visage,  revealing  his  col- 
larless  shirt  and  shabby  clothes. 

Already  she  had  set  foot  inside.  Perhaps  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  the  man  halted  her — perhaps  some  occult  thing 
within  the  law  held  her  fettered  in  chains  invisible.  She 
stood  with  head  averted,  dumb,  motionless,  grasping  her  key 
convulsively. 

"My  God,"  he  whispered,  "won't  you  even  look  at 
me?" 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked  in  the  ghost  of  a  voice. 
Then,  slowly,  she  turned  and  looked  at  her  husband. 

"I'm  sick "     He  leaned  weakly  against  the  vestibule 

door,  and  she  saw  his  closing  eyes  and  the  breath  labouring 
and  heaving  his  bony  chest. 

What  was  this  miserable  creature  to  her,  who  had  cheated 
her  girlhood  and  struck  her  a  blow  that  never  could  entirely 
heal? 

What  had  she  to  do  with  any  sickness  of  this  man  and 
his  poverty  and  misery? 

"Why  should  you — come — to  me?"  she  asked.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  her  body  quivering  all  over.  "What  do  I 
owe  to  you?"  she  cried,  revolted. 

He  muttered  something; — "In  sickness  and  in  health — 
till — till  death  do  us — part " 

A  dry  sob  checked  his  mumbling.  He  shook  his  head, 
slightly.     His  heavy  eyes  closed. 

She  stood  staring  at  him  and  holding  the  door  partly 
open.     Twice  she  clutched  the  knob  in  nervous  fingers  as 


E  R  I  S  261 

though  to  slam  the  door  in  his  face  and  bolt  out  this  pallid 
spectre  of  the  past.     She  could  not  stir. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  finally  forced  herself 
to  ask. 

He  opened  his  sick  eyes :     "Hunger — I  guess " 

"You  may  have  money  if  you  need  it.  Is  that  what  you 
want?" 

He  seemed  to  summon  strength  to  stand  upright  and  pass 
his  bloodless  fingers  over  his  face. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  muttered  thickly;  "I  didn't  mean  to 
bother  you " 

He  turned  as  though  to  go,  steadying  himself  with  one 
shaky  hand  on  the  stoop  railing.  At  the  door-step  he 
stumbled,  swayed,  but  recovered. 

"Stuart!"  she  burst  out,  "come  back!" 

He  pulled  himself  together ;  turned  toward  her :  "I  don't 
want  money.  .  .  .  I'm  too  sick " 

"Wait !     You  can't  go  into  the  street  that  way !  .  .  ." 

He  seemed  so  shaky  and  confused  that  she  took  hold  of 
his  ragged  arm.  Very  slowly,  and  supported  by  her,  he 
entered  the  doorway.  They  climbed  the  stairs  together, 
wearily,  in  silence. 

Hattie  usually  went  home  at  night  and  arrived,  by  key, 
early  in  the  morning.  Eris  unlocked  her  door,  lighted  the 
corridor,  went  on  to  the  living-room  and  lighted  that.  Then 
she  returned  to  her  husband  and  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen 
and  pantry  and  lighted  them  both. 

"There  is  a  chair,"  she  said.  "I'll  make  you  some  hot 
coffee." 

She  flung  a  cloth  over  the  kitchen  table,  laid  a  cover, 
brought  what  there  was  in  the  ice-box, — cold  lamb,  sar- 
dines, butter,  fruit.  She  went  again  to  the  pantry  and 
sliced  bread  for  him.  Then  she  started  the  gas  range  in  the 
kitchen. 

"I'm  putting  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  he  mumbled. 

She  paid  him  no  attention  but  went  on  with  her  prepara- 


252  E  R  I  S 

tions.  When  finally  she  returned  with  the  steaming  coffee 
she  found  he  had  eaten  nothing. 

However,  he  drank  some  of  the  cofiFee.  After  that 
he  slumped  on  his  chair,  dazed,  inert,  his  lack-lustre  gaze 
on  the  floor.  But  his  bony,  bloodless  fingers — ^those 
long,  clever,  nimble  fingers  she  remembered — picked  aim- 
lessly at  everything — at  his  face,  at  his  clothing,  at  the  sliced 
bread. 

"Have  you  been  ill  long?"  she  forced  herself  to  ask. 

He  mumbled  something.  She  bent  nearer  to  understand, 
but  he  fell  silent,  continuing  to  pick  and  fumble  and  stare  at 
space. 

"Do  you  feel  very  ill,  Stuart  ?    I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"If  I  could  have — a  little  whiskey — or  something — ^to 
buck  up " 

She  rose,  got  the  g^ft  bottle  that  she  had  been  sav- 
ing; brought  it  to  him  with  a  tumbler;  left  him  there 
with  it. 

As  she  turned  her  back  and  walked  nervously  toward  the 
front  of  the  house,  he  peeped  after  her  out  of  shadowy 
eyes,  not  lifting  his  head.  Then  he  poured  out  half  a  glass 
of  neat  whiskey,  steadily  enough,  swallowed  it,  looked 
around. 

In  the  living  room  Eris  flung  scarf  and  reticule  on  the 
sofa,  stood  for  a  moment  twisting  her  fingers  in  helpless 
revolt;  then,  fighting  ofif  nervous  reaction,  she  paced  the 
room  striving  to  think  what  to  do,  what  was  right  to  do  in 
this  miserable  emergency. 

Did  she  owe  this  man  anything  more  than  she  owed  to 
any  sick,  hungry,  ragged  man ?  li  so,  wJiat?  How  much? 
How  far  did  the  law  run  that  fettered  her?  What  were 
the  statutes  which  exacted  service?  And  the  ethics  of  the 
case — what  were  they?  Anything  except  the  bare  morals 
involved?  Anything  except  the  ordinary  humanity  oper- 
ating generally  in  such  cases  and  involving  her  in  obvious 
obligation  ?     Were  they  the  obligations  which  once  involved 


E  R I  S  253 

those  who  looked  upon  Lazarus  and  "passed  by  on  the  other 
side"  ?     Were  they  really  more  vital  ? 

She  went  slowly  back  to  the  kitchen.  Hearing  her  ap- 
proach, her  husband  had  crossed  both  arms  on  the  table 
and  dropped  his  marred  face  in  them. 

"Are  you  really  very  ill,  Stuart?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"No.     I'll  go "     He  tried,  apparently,  to  get  to  his 

feet ;  fell  back  on  the  chair,  whimpering. 

There  was  a  small  room  off  the  pantry  where,  in  emer- 
gency, Hattie  sometimes  slept  on  a  box-couch. 

"You  can  lie  down  there  for  a  while  if  you  wish,"  she 
said.  She  helped  him  get  up;  he  stumbled  toward  the 
pantry,  gfuided  by  her,  to  the  couch  in  the  little  room  beyond. 
Here  he  sank  down  and  dropped  his  head  between  his  hands. 
She  had  turned  to  leave  but  halted  and  looked  back  at  him 
from  the  pantry  doorway. 

"I  had  better  call  a  physician,"  she  said,  frightened  by  his 
deathly  colour. 

He  might  have  explained  that  his  pasty  skin  was  partly 
due  to  prison  pallour,  partly  to  drugs.  Instead  he  asked 
for  a  little  more  whiskey. 

"I  don't  want  a  doctor,"  he  muttered;  "I'll  be  all  right 
after  a  nap.  This  whiskey  will  pull  me  together.  .  .  .  You 
go  to  bed." 

After  a  while  he  looked  up  at  her,  rested  so,  his  shadowy 
eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  sort  of  stealthy  intentness. 

"You'd  better  sleep  if  you  can,"  she  said.  "I'll  have  to 
wake  you  soon.     It  is  growing  very  late." 

"Oh  God!"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "what  a  wreck  I've 
made  of  our  lives !" 

"Not  of  mine,"  she  retorted  coolly;  and  turned  to 
leave. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  whined.  "I  didn't  mean  to  get  you  in 
wrong.  ...  I  meant  to  go  straight  after  we  were  married. 
.  .  .  But  they  got  me  wrong,  Eris,  they  got  me  wrong !  .  .  . 
It  was  the  very  last  job  I  ever  meant  to  do.  ...  I  gave  up 


S54  ERIS 

the  plates.  That's  how  they  let  me  off  with  a  light  one. 
.  .  .  I'm  out  over  a  month,  now " 

"Were  you  in — in  prison!"'  she  demanded  with  an  over- 
whelming surge  of  disgust. 

He  began  to  snivel:  "You  couldn't  get  over  that,  could 
you,  Eris?  .  .  .  And  what  I  did  to  you — ^getting  you  in 
wrong — disgracing  you  that  way " 

She  made  no  answer  but  her  grey  eyes  grew  cold. 

"You  couldn't  ever  forgive  me,  could  you,  Eris?"  he 
whimpered,  watching  her  intently. 

"I  can  forget  you,  in  time,  if  you  keep  away  from  me. 
.  .  .  But — it  is  terrible  to  see  you — terrible!" 

He  licked  his  dry  lips,  furtively,  always  watching  her. 

"H  ever  you  would  let  me  try  to  make  amends — if  you'd 
just  let  me  work  for  you, — slave  for  you " 

For  an  instant  she  stared  at  him,  incredulous  that  she  had 
heard  correctly.  Then  wrath  set  her  cheeks  ablaze:  but 
her  voic  remained  controlled,  and  she  chose  and  measured 
her  words : 

"Listen  to  me,  Stuart:  I  wouldn't  let  you  lift  a  finger 
for  me ;  I  wouldn't  let  you  touch  me, — I  don't  expect  ever 
to  see  you  again, — I  don't  want  even  to  hear  of  you.  And 
that's  that!" 

"Do  you  hate  me  so  bitterly,  Eris?"  he  whimpered, 
cringing  but  always  watching  her  face. 

"It  isn't  hate.  For  what  you  did  to  an  ignorant  girl — 
for  your  deception,  your  meanness,  your  lying,  I  have  no 
hatred.  I  don't  hate:  I  merely  rid  myself  of  what  offends 
me. 

He  began  to  snivel  again,  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  box- 
couch, swaying  from  side  to  side : 

"I  know  I  shouldn't  have  married  you.  But  I  wanted  to 
go  straight.  I  was  madly  in  love  with  you,  Eris — ^and  I 
haven't  changed.     Haven't  you  a  word  for  me " 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  loathing  in  which  no  saving 
spark  of  anger  mitigated  the  cold  disgust.  She  said,  slowly : 


ERIS  t65 

""All  I  need  ever  say  to  you  can  be  said  through  a  lawyer. 
That  is  all  that  concerns  you.  If  you  wish  to  lie  down,  do 
so.  I  don't  want  you  here;  but  I  wouldn't  turn  a  sick 
snake  out  of  doors." 

She  left  him  and  went  back  to  her  bed-room.  For  an 
hour  she  sat  there,  unstirring,  waiting,  listening  at  moments. 
The  flush  remained  on  her  cheeks;  and  into  her  eyes  there 
came  a  glint  at  times,  as  where  storms  brood  behind  grey 
horizons. 

The  day,  indeed,  had  bred  storms  for  Eris — for  Eris, 
daughter  of  Discord — sitting  here  in  her  dim  chamber  all 
alone. 

Twice  after  midnight  she  had  gone  to  the  little  room  off 
the  pantry,  only  to  find  her  husband  heavily  asleep.  He 
seemed  so  wretched  a  thing,  so  broken,  so  haggard,  that 
she  had  yet  not  found  courage  to  awake  him  and  send  him 
into  the  street. 

So  now,  once  more,  she  returned  to  her  bed-room  and 
her  sombre  vigil;  sat  there  brooding,  waiting,  listening  at 
intervals,  wondering  what  to  do,  and  how,  and  when. 

The  fatigue  of  that  unhappy  day  had  strained  her  nerves, 
not  her  courage.  But  for  the  advent  of  this  miserable  man 
she  would  have  had  leisure  to  think  about  what  was  to  be 
done  for  the  future  and  face  the  fact  that  she  was  out  of 
work. 

Now  she  felt  too  weary  to  think — ^too  tired  to  examine 
the  situation  which  so  suddenly  confronted  her  when  Albert 
SmuU  flung  his  last  insult  in  her  shrinking  face. 

Troubles  thickened  about  her;  trouble  was  invading  her 
very  door;  but  she  was  too  sleepy  to  consider  the  misfor- 
tunes that  involved  her  —  the  menacing  situation  at  the 
studio — the  sordid  problem  in  the  next  room. 

Her  little  mantel  clock  struck  two  o'clock  before  she 
finally  summoned  energy  to  rise  and  go  to  awaken  hex; 
husband. 

He  seemed  to  be  in  a  sort  of  coma.      Only  after  she 


ft56  E  R  I  S 

twitched  his  sleeve  repeatedly  did  he  unclose  his  dangerous 
eyes.  And  then  he  merely  muttered  fretfully  that  he  was 
too  weak  to  move  and  meant  to  sleep  where  he  lay  until 
morning. 

"You  can't  remain  here  all  night,"  she  said.  "I  can't 
permit  that.     Do  you  understand,  Stuart?" 

But  he  only  turned  over,  muttering  incoherencies,  and 
buried  his  dishevelled  head  in  his  ragged  arms. 

Not  knowing  what  to  do,  she  went  wearily  back  to  her 
bed-room.  Twice,  trying  to  think  what  to  do,  she  fell 
asleep  in  her  chair.  The  second  waking  found  her  on  her 
feet,  blind  with  sleep,  but  with  instinct  leading  her  to  lock 
and  bolt  her  bed-room  door.  .  .  .  That  is  the  last  she  re- 
membered for  a  while. 

She  awoke,  lying  diagonally  across  her  bed,  fully  dressed, 
in  the  dull,  rosy  glow  of  her  little  night-lamp.  Something 
was  scraping  and  scratching  at  her  door.  She  turned  her 
head,  saw  the  door-knob  twisting  very  softly,  now  this 
way,  now  that. 

She  got  up  from  the  bed  and  went  quickly  to  the  door. 

"If  you  don't  leave  this  house,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  shall  telephone  for  a  policeman." 

"Take  me  back,  Eris,"  he  whined.  "As  God  sees  me,  I 
love  you !     I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you " 

"Leave  this  house,"  she  repeated. 

He  tried  the  door  again,  gently,  then  wrenched  at  the 
knob.  Suddenly  he  threw  his  full  weight  against  the  door. 
But  they  wrought  well  in  the  days  when  that  old  house  was 
built. 

Listening,  she  heard  him  moving  off,  softly,  and  realised 
he  had  removed  his  shoes. 

For  a  long  while  she  continued  to  listen,  but  heard  no 
further  sound  from  him.  There  was  not  the  slightest  sense 
of  fear  in  her,  merely  loathing  and  weariness  unutterable. 

She  went  back,  finally,  to  the  bed  and  lay  down  across  it. 


E  R I  S  267. 

Four  o'clock  struck  in  the  living-room.  After  that  she 
remembered  listening  and  trying  to  remain  awake. 

She  had  been  sleeping  heavily  for  two  hours  when  Eddie 
Carter,  alias  E.  Stuart  Graydon,  tried  the  bolt  with  the  blade 
of  a  kitchen  knife.  He  had  contrived,  also,  to  fashion 
another  instrument  out  of  a  steel  fork.  Neither  of  these 
worked. 

As  half  past  five  struck  in  the  living-room,  where  he  was 
seated,  he  concluded  that  the  other  plan  had  become  inevi- 
table. He  had  hoped  it  might  be  avoided.  But  the  girl  he 
now  had  to  deal  with  was  no  longer  the  ignorant,  impres- 
sionable child  he  had  so  easily  moulded  to  his  fancy. 

There  were  two  matters  which  preoccupied  this  man: 
the  first,  a  genuine  passion  for  the  girl-wife  he  had  been 
forced  to  abandon.  Whatever  this  sentiment  was, — love 
or  a  lesser  impulse, — it  had  been  born  the  moment  he  lost 
her;  and  it  had  painfully  persisted  through  those  prison 
months. 

The  second  matter  which  absorbed  him  was  hatred  for 
the  man  who  had  sent  him  to  a  second  term  in  prison.  The 
charge  was  forgery ;  the  firm  of  Smull,  Shill  &  Co.  procured 
his  arrest. 

On  these  two  matters  his  mind  had  remained  fiixed  until 
the  poignancy  of  brooding  became  intolerable;  and  he 
sought  relief  in  prison-smuggled  drugs.  Which,  so  far, 
was  the  history  of  Eddie  Carter,  addict,  and  penman  par 
excellence. 

Now,  hunched  up  in  an  armchair  in  her  living-room,  he 
studied  the  immediate  problem  of  Eris,  picking  eternally  at 
the  upholstery  with  scarred  fingers,  or  at  his  clothing,  his 
face,  his  own  finger-nails — the  skin  around  the  base  of  the 
nails  raw  from  long  habit  of  self -mutilation. 

His  first  plan  of  enlisting  the  girl's  sympathy  had  proven 
hopeless.     There  remained  the  alternate  plan. 


«58  E  R I  S 

Six  o'clock  sounded  from  the  mantel  clock.  He  got  up 
and  went  to  the  pantry,  where  was  a  telephone  extension  for 
servants.  With  some  difficulty  and  delay  he  got  the  person 
he  was  calling : 

"Say,  Abe,  it's  Eddie.  I've  done  what  you  said  for  me 
to  do " 

"I  didn't  tell  you  to  do  anything!"  interrupted  his  lawyer, 
angrily.  "Get  next  to  yourself  or  I  quit  right  now !  D'you 
get  that,  you  cheap  dumbbell  ?" 

"Sure!  But  listen,  Abe.  I'm  here.  I've  been  here 
since  ten  o'clock  last  night.     We're  both  here,  Abe " 

"Is  it  fixed  up?" 

"No,  Abe;  and  I  want  you  to  come  right  now.  You 
understand,  Abe " 

"Cut  out  the  Abe  every  other  word,"  interrupted  the 
attorney  wrathfully.  "What  are  you  trying  to  do  to  me? 
Act  like  you  got  sense  or  I'm  through !" 

"All  right.  Take  it  on  the  run.  I'll  let  you  in.  You 
better  not  stop  to  shave ;  it's  six,  now." 

"I'll  be  around,"  replied  the  lawyer  briefly. 

He  came  in  a  taxi-cab.  Eddie  Carter  saw  him  from  the 
front  window,  went  downstairs  in  his  stocking- feet,  and  let 
him  in. 

Climbing  the  stairs  again  they  came  into  the  living-room 
without  exchanging  a  word;  but  here  Carter  pointed  to  the 
closed  door  of  Eris'  bed-room. 

"Asleep?"  inquired  the  other,  still  breathing  hard  from 
the  ascent. 

"I  don't  know.     She's  locked  in." 

The  lawyer  looked  at  him:  "So  she  locked  you  out? 
When?" 

"Last  night." 

"Wouldn't  she  make  up?" 

"No." 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  fix  it " 


E  R I  S  259 

There  was  a  silence ;  then  the  short,  fat  attorney  took  hold 
of  Carter's  arm  and  spoke  close  to  his  ear : 

"Get  this  right!  When  she  unlocks  that  door  to  come 
out,  you  came  out  with  her!" 

"You  saw  me,"  nodded  Carter.  ' 

They  began  to  prowl  around  the  apartment.  In  the 
kitchen  the  lawyer  whispered:  "She  must  have  some  kind 
of  a  maid  that  comes  by  the  day." 

"Yes,  a  nigger.  Her  name's  Hattie.  You  going  to  buy 
her,  Abe?" 

"We  don't  have  to.  She's  our  witness  anyway,"  added 
the  little  fat  attorney,  with  a  hint  of  a  grin. 

At  that  moment  a  key  rattled  in  the  kitchen  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AS  Eris  was  entirely  alone  in  the  apartment  at  night,  it 
had  been  her  custom  to  lock  and  bolt  her  chamber 
door, — a  rough  neighbourhood  and  rear  fire-escapes  making 
it  advisable. 

So  now,  when  the  rapping  on  her  bed-room  door  aroused 
her,  she  rose  mechanically,  still  drugged  with  sleep,  made 
her  way  blindly  to  the  door,  and  unlocked  it. 

As  she  opened  her  door  so  that  Hattie  could  enter  and 
draw  her  morning  bath,  the  sight  of  the  coloured  woman's 
agitated  features  startled  her. 

Suddenly  a  glimpse  of  Gray  don  in  the  living-room  be- 
yond brought  the  girl  to  her  shocked  senses. 

There  seemed  to  be  another  man  there,  too — a  fat,  bald, 
bland  little  man  who  smiled  and  bowed  to  her,  flourished  a 
straw  hat,  clapped  it  on  his  shiny  head,  and  immediately 
waddled  out  of  the  apartment. 

For  one  dreadful  moment  a  premonition  of  disaster  para- 
lysed the  girl,  blanched  her  face. 

Then  she  walked  straight  into  the  living-room  where  her 
husband  slouched  against  the  mantel,  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, an  unlighted  cigarette  sagging  over  his  chin. 

"Get  out  of  this  house!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  that 
quivered. 

"Send  that  wench  of  yours  to  the  kitchen,"  he  retorted 
coolly. 

Suddenly  something  about  this  man  frightened  her.  It 
was  a  vague,  formless  fear.  But  it  was  fear.  She  felt  the 
chill  of  it. 

"Will  you  leave  this  house?"  she  managed  to  say. 

260 


ERIS  261 

"You  listen  to  me  first." 

Again  a  swift,  indefinite  fear  silenced  her.  Danger  was 
written  all  over  this  man.  What  menaced  her  she  did  not 
know,  had  no  vaguest  guess.  But  never  before  had  she 
looked  into  eyes  so  perilous. 

When  she  found  her  voice : 

"You  may  start  breakfast,  Hattie,"  she  said. 

"Start  some  for  me,  too,"  added  Graydon,  without  re- 
moving his  gaze  from  Eris. 

And,  when  the  lingering  servant  had  gone,  reluctant, 
perplexed,  still  loitering  in  the  dining-room  devoured  by 
curiosity,  Graydon  said  quietly : 

"Eris,  I  want  you  back!  That's  what's  the  matter. 
Take  me  back.     You  won't  be  sorry." 

"Who  was  that  man  who  came  here?"  she  demanded. 

"He  needn't  matter — if  you'll  give  me  a  chance  to  make 
good " 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  that  man  was !" 

"Answer  me!     Will  you  take  me " 

"No!     Now,  who  was  he?" 

"My  lawyer,"  he  said,  " — if  that  interests  you." 

"Did  you  telephone  for  him,  or  was  it  already  arranged  ?" 

"If  you'll  listen  to  me " 

"Answer  me!" 

"I  called  him  up.  ...  I  hope  I  shan't  need  him " 


"Are  you  threatening  me  with  scandal  because  I  let  you 
sleep  here  last  night  ?" 

"There's  no  scandal — ^as  long  as  you  are  my  wife " 

"How  long,"  said  she,  "do  you  suppose  I  shall  remain 
married  to  an  ex-convict  ?" 

Graydon  laughed,  fished  in  his  soiled  vest  for  a  match, 
lighted  his  cigarette : 

"You've  condoned  whatever  I've  done,  Eris,"  he  said. 

"What!" 

"You've  no  case.  You've  condoned  my  offence.  I  guess 
you'll  have  to  remain  married  to  me,  Eris." 


862  ERIS 

For  a  full  minute  she  failed  to  understand,  watching  him 
intently,  searching  for  the  sinister  import  of  his  words. 

Suddenly  her  face  flushed  scarlet.  The  hideous  thing 
confronted  her. 

"You  see,"  he  said  coolly,  "you  can't  afford  to  face  a 
jury,  now." 

"I  see,"  she  said.  "You  have  two  witnesses.  Also,  you 
have  nothing  to  lose,  have  you!" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"You !  .  .  .  I  have  you  to  lose.  And  I'm  going  to  make 
the  play  of  my  life  for  you " 

His  hideous  features  altered  and  a  rush  of  startling 
colour  painted  his  cheek-bones  with  two  feverish  smears : 

"You  listen  to  me,  now,  and  hold  your  tongue !  I  know 
what  you're  up  to!"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  broke  with 
passion.  "I've  trailed  you;  I've  followed  you;  I've  kept 
tabs  on  you." 

"When  you're  not  playing  up  to  young  Annan  you're 
vamping  Albert  Smull.  Yes,  you  are !  Don't  stall  I  You 
go  to  his  fancy  apartment  alone.  You  go  to  Annan's  house. 
You've  got  'em  both  on  your  string.  You've  got  others. 
Any  man  who  meets  you  falls  for  you ! " 

He  flung  his  chewed,  wet  cigarette  into  the  fire-place;  he 
was  trembling  all  over. 

"You  may  think  it's  because  you're  making  a  wad  of 
money  that  I'm  trying  to  get  you  back!  That's  all  right, 
too;  I'm  glad  you  are  on  easy  street.  I  need  money,  but  not 
much. 

"It's  you  I  want.  And  whatever  you  say  or  think,  I  was 
in  love  with  you  when  I  married  you.  I  had  to  beat  it.  It 
drove  me  almost  crazy  to  leave  you.  Two  years  in  prison 
drove  me  crazier.     I've  been  sick.     I'm  sick  now.     I'll  get 

well  if  you  take  me  back.  .  .  .  And  if  you  won't "    He 

came  closer,  looking  intently  into  her  eyes :  "If  you  won't 
— well,  there's  one  man  who  isn't  ever  going  to  get  you, 


E  R I  S  263" 

Ens.  .  .  .  And  his  name's  Albert  Smull.  .  .  .  And  the 
next  time  I  find  him  loafing  around  you,  you'd  better  kiss 
him  good-bye.     For,  by  Jesus,  I'll  fix  him  good!" 

The  girl  seated  herself  on  the  arm  of  a  chair.  Her  head 
was  reeling  a  little,  but  she  kept  it  high. 

"How  much  money  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"I  need  that,  too.  I'll  take  twenty-five  dollars  if  you  can 
spare  it.  And  I'd  like  a  cheque  with  it.  You're  making 
good  money :    I  guess  five  hundred  won't  crimp  you." 

Her  silk  reticule  still  lay  on  the  sofa  where  she  had  flung 
it  the  night  before.  She  picked  it  up,  took  from  it  the 
money  he  required,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

Her  cheque-book  was  in  her  desk.  Seating  herself  she 
opened  it  and  wrote  out  the  amount  he  had  demanded,  blot- 
ted the  strip  of  yellow  paper,  gave  it  to  him. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I've  paid  you  to  keep  away  from  me 
until  I  free  myself.  After  that  the  police  can  take  care  of 
you  if  you  annoy  me." 

He  smiled:  "When  you  consult  your  attorney  you'll 
realise  that  you  have  no  witnesses  and  no  case,  little  lady." 

"I  need  only  one  witness,"  she  said.    , 

"Who?" 

"Any  —  physician."  Suddenly  her  white  fury  was 
loosened  and  she  took  him  by  his  ragged  arm  and  shook  him 
till  he  stumbled  and  almost  fell. 

"I  tell  you  this,"  she  said,  her  grey  eyes  blazing,  "because 
you  had  better  understand  it  in  time  to  save  yourself  from 
another  term  in  prison !  For  if  you  ever  dare  contest  the 
action  I  shall  bring  with  the  vile  lie  you  threaten,  any  wit- 
ness I  call  will  send  you  back  to  a  cell, — and  your  attorney 
with  you !     And  that's  that,  damn  you !" 

Her  hand  fell  away  from  his  sleeve.  He  stood  motion- 
less, sickly  white  as  though  something  vital  in  him  had  been 
shattered. 

For,  as  he  stared  at  her,  he  never  doubted  that  she  had 
spoken  the  truth.     And  the  truth  meant  his  finish. 


264  E  R  I  S 

As  he  stood  there,  stricken  dumb,  his  bony  frame  was 
shaking  sHghtly  and  sweat  chilled  his  face.  He  groped  for 
control  of  what  mind  his  drugs  had  spared  him, — strove  to 
clear  it  of  chaos,  formulate  some  thought,  some  charge  of 
misconduct  against  her — something  to  involve  her  with 
some  man.  And  knew,  somehow,  that  it  would  be  useless. 
The  girl  had  not  lied.  Any  witness  she  chose  to  call  meant 
her  vindication. 

After  a  long  while  he  passed  his  scarred  fingers  over  his 
face,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  eyes.  Then  he  turned, 
slouched  toward  the  door,  opened  it.  And,  on  the  sill, 
slowly  faced  around  and  looked  back  at  her. 

"You  win,  Eris,"  he  mumbled.  "I  guess  you're  good. 
.  .  .  Stay  so,  and  I  won't  bother  you.  .  .  .  But  I  won't 
stand  for  any  other  man.  .  .  .  Don't  make  any  mistake 
there.  ...  I  mean  Albert  Smull.  I  know  him.  I  know 
how  he  gets  women.  You  think  you  stop  him  but  he'll  fool 
you  every  time.  .  .  .  He's  a  rat.  .  .  .  You  keep  away 
from  him.  .  .  .  That's  all." 

He  went,  shambling,  dull  eyed,  ghastly,  picking  at  his 
face  with  long,  scarred  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AS  the  door  closed  behind  Graydon,   Hattie  appeared 
from  the  dining-room  and  sullenly  confronted  her 
mistress. 

"I  ain't  a-going  to  stay,"  she  said. 

Eris  looked  up,  blankly,  still  pale  and  confused  by  the 
gust  of  passion  that  had  swept  her. 

"I  don't  have  to  work  in  no  such  kinda  place,"  continued 
the  coloured  woman  doggedly,  "and  I  ain't  a-going  to. 
Mah  week's  up  Friday,  but  you  pay  me  up  to  las'  night  an' 
I'll  go  now." 

The  girl  comprehended.  A  painful  colour  surged  over 
her  face  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  She  went  to  her 
desk,  opened  an  account  book,  then  drew  a  cheque  for  the 
balance  of  the  woman's  wages. 

Hattie  took  the  cheque,  hesitated :  "Of  co'se,"  she  ven- 
tured, "if  yo'  wishes  me  to  stay,  Miss  Eris,  mah  wages  will 
be  jess  ten  dollahs  mo'  a  week.  Any  real  lady  would  be 
glad  to  gimme  that  foh  all  I  does " 

"I  don't  need  you,"  said  the  girl  quietly.  "Go  as  soon  as 
you  can  get  ready." 

"Suit  yo'se'f,  Mrs.  Graydon,"  retorted  Hattie,  with  elab- 
orate disrespect,  "and  if  I  may  kindly  persume  to  be  ex- 
cused, Mrs.  Graydon,  I  will  attend  to  the  requiahments 
necessary  fo*  my  departure." 

Said  Eris:  "Pack  your  effects,  Hattie,  and  call  an  ex- 
pressman. I  shall  not  expect  to  find  you  loitering  here 
when  I  return." 

265 


W6  E  R  I  S 

The  coloured  woman's  eyes  snapped  as  Eris  entered  her 
bed-room  and  closed  the  door. 

To  bathe  and  dress  did  not  take  her  very  long. 

When  she  came  out  she  was  dressed  for  the  street.  There 
was  no  breakfast  on  the  dining-room  table,  but  she  wanted 
none. 

She  went  to  the  kitchen  and  found  Hattie  seated,  feeding 
on  hambone,  and  her  rickety  valise  still  unpacked. 

"I  want  you  to  be  out  of  this  apartment  by  noon,"  said 
Eris  quietly.  Then  she  opened  the  hall  door  and  ran  down- 
stairs, Hattie's  malignant  laugh  ringing  in  her  ears. 

When  Eris  had  disappeared,  the  negress  waddled  to  the 
gas  stove,  lit  it,  and  started  to  make  herself  a  cup  of  tea. 
She  meant  to  do  what  gastronomic  damage  she  could  short 
of  theft. 

Before  the  kettle  boiled,  the  telephone  rang.  To  ignore 
it  was  a  haughty  pleasure  for  Hattie;  but  presently  African 
curiosity  prevailed  and  she  got  up  and  waddled  to  the  tele- 
phone, muttering  to  herself. 

"Yaas,  suh?"  she  repHed  to  some  query. 

"Whor 

"Mistuh  Annan?" 

"No,  suh,  she  ain't  home.  Dey's  nobody  home  'cept'n 
myse'f." 

Annan  said:  "I've  some  flowers.  I'd  like  to  arrange 
them  to  surprise  Miss  Odell.  Could  I  bring  them  around, 
Hattie?" 

"Suit  yo'se'f,  suh.     It  ain't  botherin'  me  none." 

"I'll  be  right  around,"  he  said  gaily. 

She  went  sullenly  back  to  her  kettle,  meditating  mischief. 

Annan  arrived  in  a  few  moments,  laden  with  long,  flat 
boxes  of  pasteboard.  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  Hattie,  took 
his  flowers  to  the  living-room,  returned  to  fetch  a  dozen 
plain  glass  vases,  jars  and  rose-bowls,  and  went  happily 
back  to  the  business  of  decoration. 

He  remained  very  busy  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  filling 


E  R I S  267 

the  vases  at  her  bath-tub,  clipping  stems,  trimming  too  pro- 
fuse foliage,  arranging  the  sheaves  of  fragrant  bloom,  and 
carrying  each  vase  to  its  proper  place  in  the  three  rooms. 

When  he  had  finished,  and  on  his  way  out,  he  stopped  to 
speak  to  Hattie  at  the  dining-room  door : 

"Please  ask  Miss  Odell  to  call  me  up  when  she  returns," 
he  said.     "I  suppose  she  has  gone  to  the  studio,"  he  added. 

"I  don't  know,  suh.  Miss  Eris'  husband  he  stayed  here 
las'  night.     I  reckon  she's  payin'  him  a  call,  maybe." 

Annan  stared  at  her  as  though  she  suddenly  had  gone 
mad. 

"Yaas,  suh,"  continued  the  negress,  "I'se  quit,  I  has. 
Too  many  doin's  in  this  here  flat  to  suit  me.  I  guess  you 
all  didn't  know  Miss  Eris  had  a  husband  sleepin'  here,"  she 
added  with  a  bland  malignance  that  stunned  him. 

He  inspected  the  wench  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  sharply  on  his  heel  and  went  down  stairs. 

His  taxi  was  waiting.  He  drove  directly  home,  entered 
his  study  and  sat  down  to  the  sorry  business  of  waiting. 

All  the  morning  and  afternoon  he  waited  there,  his  face 
white  and  set,  his  grim  gaze  fixed  on  space. 

About  five  o'clock  he  called  up.  The  house  did  not 
answer. 

Eris  had  asked  him  not  to  call  her  at  the  studio  for 
obvious  reasons,  and  he  never  had  done  so,  except  by  pre- 
vious agreement.  But  now  he  decided  to  do  so.  He  got 
the  doorman,  Flynn." 

"Yes,  sir;  Miss  Odell  come  in  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Is  the  company  working?"  inquired  Annan  nervously." 

"No,  sir,  nobody's  here  to-day  except  Miss  Oddl  and  Mr. 
Smull " 

'Whcr 

"Mr.  Smull,  sir.     He  just  come  in  a  minute  since 

Hold  the  wire,  please." 

After  a  minute  or  two  the  doorkeeper's  voice:  "She's 
bu^,  sir.     She  can't  talk  to  you  now " 


268  E  R  I  S 

"Did  Miss  Odell  tell  you  to  say  that?" 

"No,  Mr.  Smull  told  me  she  couldn't  talk  to  nobody  just 
now." 

"Call  up  Mr.  Smull  again  and  tell  him  Mr.  Annan  wishes 
to  speak  to  Miss  Odell  at  once!" 

"I  don't  like  to — all  right,  hold  it  again " 

Annan  waited.     Suddenly  Smull's  voice:     "Annan?" 

"Yes." 

"Sorry,  but  the  little  lady  can't  be  interrupted  just 
now " 

"Yes,  she  can.  She  isn't  working.  Tell  her  to  come  to 
the  wire !" 

"There's  a  business  conference " 

"Will  you  kindly  say  to  her  that  I  wish  to  speak  to- 


'Sorry,"  interrupted  Smull,  and  hung  up  in  his  ear. 

Annan  picked  up  his  hat,  descended  the  stairs,  and  went 
out. 

About  five  minutes  after  he  left  the  house  his  telephone 
rang.  Mrs.  Sniffen  answered  it,  and  recognised  the  voice 
of  Eris  inquiring  for  Annan. 

"I'll  see  if  he's  in.  Miss " 

"Did  he  call  me  a  few  minutes  ago,  Mrs.  Sniffen  ?" 

"I  couldn't  say,  Miss;  I  was  in  the  kitchen.  I'll  see  if 
he's  in  his  study " 

She  returned  in  a  moment  to  say  that  Mr.  Annan  was 
not  in. 

"Thank  you,"  came  the  girl's  hasty  voice. 

Eris  hung  up  the  receiver  of  the  telephone  in  the  directors' 
office  at  the  studio,  where  Smull  stood. 

"Now  will  you  believe  me  ?"  he  demanded. 

"I  heard  you  ask  if  it  were  Mr.  Annan,"  she  said.  "I 
could  hear  perfectly  well  from  my  dressing-room." 

"I  thought  Flynn  said  it  was  Annan  and  I  asked,"  in- 
sisted Smull,  "but  it  turned  out  to  be  a  Herald  man  who 
wanted  copy.     So  now  if  you'll  listen  to  me,  Eris " 


E  R I  S  269 

"I  have  already  tried  to  make  you  understand  that  I  have 
tio  interest  in  anything  you  say " 

"For  God's  sake,  be  charitable  and  overlook  what  a  man 
says  and  does  when  he's  drunk " 

"I  don't  think  you  were " 

"I  was,  I  tell  you!  I  carry  it  that  way.  I  turn  ugly. 
When  I  get  a  few  highballs  in  me  I'm  a  different  kind  of 
man.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Eris,  if  you'll  be  a  sport  and  call  it 
off,  I'll  give  you  my  word,  as  long  as  you  and  I  are  friends, 
never  to  touch  a  drop  of  anything!" 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  alone,"  she  said  in  a  colourless 
voice.     "I  don't  know  how  you  knew  I  was  here " 

"I  told  Flynn  to  notify  me  as  soon  as  you  arrived " 

"That  was  insolent  of  you " 

"Good  heavens,  Eris,  I  couldn't  let  things  stand  as  they 
were,  could  I?  The  memory  of  my  beastly  behaviour  to 
you  was  driving  me  crazy.  Anyhow,  you've  a  cheque 
coming  to  you  and  I  had  to  get  at  the  books " 

"That  is  Mr.  Creevy's  business.  ...  I  didn't  come  here 
for  that,  either.  I  came  to  gather  up  my  personal  belong- 
ings  " 

"Listen,  Eris.  After  all,  I've  given  you  your  chance, 
haven't  I  ?  I've  backed  you  with  real  money.  Except  for 
that  one  break  last  night  I've  played  square,  haven't  I  ?  All 
right.     Are  you  going  to  quit  me  cold?" 

"I've  got  to " 

"You're  going  to  put  this  outfit  on  the  bum?  You're 
going  to  walk  out  on  us  ?" 

"You  told  me  I  was  out." 

"Can't  you  forget  what  a  souse  says  when  he's  all  to  the 
bad?  What'll  we  do  if  you  leave  us  flat?  Do  you  think 
it's  a  cinch  to  pick  another  like  you?  What'll  this  bunch 
do  ?  What'll  Creevy  do,  and  Shunk  ?  Look  at  this  plant ! 
I've  got  it  for  a  year  more.  Do  you  know  what  our  over- 
head costs  me  a  week  ?  Listen,  Eris ;  have  a  heart.  Don't 
do  that  to  us " 


270  E  R  I  S 

"It's  what  you've  done,  Mr.  Smull,  not  I.  You've 
spoiled  any  pleasure  I  might  have  had  in  working  for  you. 
I  couldn't  go  on  here.  I  couldn't  do  good  work.  When 
you  told  me,  last  evening,  that  I  was  out,  you  were  right.  I 
was  out  as  soon  as  you  said  so.  It  was  final.  .  .  ,  Truth 
always  is  final.  ...  I  learned  it  last  night.  .  .  .  There  is 
nothing  further  to  learn." 

She  walked  slowly  past  him  to  the  door  and  looked  out 
across  the  great,  barnlike  place  all  littered  with  the  lumber 
and  canvas  of  half -demolished  sets,  tangles  of  insulated 
wires  and  cables,  and  sprawling  batteries  of  lights  of  every 
sort. 

In  the  heated  stillness  of  the  place  a  light  footfall  echoed 
sonorously  across  the  flooring.  The  chatter  of  intruding 
sparrows  came  from  the  arches  overhead.  Outside  sunny 
windows  ailanthus  trees,  intensely  green,  spread  motionless 
fronds  under  the  July  sky. 

Eris  moved  on,  slowly,  to  her  dressing-room — a  built-in 
affair  with  its  flimsy  partition  adjoining  the  directors'  ofiice. 

Chintz  and  paint  had  mitigated  the  bareness  of  the  room 
with  its  extemporised  dressing  table  and  couch  and  a  chair 
or  two. 

For  a  while  she  was  occupied  with  her  make-up  box; 
then,  locking  it,  she  opened  her  suitcase  and  began  to  lay 
away  such  articles  as  belonged  to  her. 

As  she  locked  and  strapped  it,  Smull  appeared  at  her 
door,  and  she  rose  in  displeasure,  although  the  infraction  of 
rule  meant  nothing  to  her  now. 

"Your  cheque,"  he  said,  extending  it. 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  want  it." 

"It  belongs  to  you.  .  .  .  You  could  hold  me  for  the 
balance  of  the  year  if  you  chose,  and  not  do  a  stroke  of 
work." 

Her  short  upper  lip  curled  shorter  in  contempt : 

"I  release  you,  Mr.  Smull." 

"I  want  you  to  take  this,  anyway " 


ERIS  «71 

"No." 

"Please,  Eris " 

"No!"  She  picked  up  her  suitcase  and  make-up  box. 
But  he  continued  to  block  the  doorway. 

"Eris!  Eris!"  he  stammered.  "Don't  do  this — don't 
leave  me !     My  God,  my  God ! — I — can't  stand  such — such 

cruelty "      His  face  was  heavily  flushed  and  his  fat 

neck  was  swelling  red  behind  the  ears. 

He  began  to  tremble  and  stammer  again — "I'll  do  any- 
thing you  ask — give  you  anything — ^if  you'll  only  listen — 
Eris 

"Eris — my  God,  I  want  to  marry  you !  I  want  you !  I'll 
keep  away  until  I  can  get  a  divorce " 

He  caught  her  arm  in  his  hot,  red  hands;  suddenly 
clutched  her  body,  crushing  her  face  against  his  with  an 
inarticulate  cry  as  though  strangling.  And  she  fought  him 
back,  savagely,  in  silence,  bruised,  wild  with  the  shame  of  it. 
Both  chairs  fell ;  he  trod  on  one,  crushing  it  to  splinters,  and 
his  powerful  shoulder  tore  the  mirror  from  the  wall  and 
wrecked  the  dressing  table  with  it. 

With  a  desperate  wrench  she  tore  free  of  him.  They 
stood,  panting,  watching  each  other  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  her  grey  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  for  he  slowly  took  a 
pistol  from  his  pocket,  his  near-set  black  eyes,  all  bloodshot, 
fastened  on  her. 

"You  listen  to  me,"  he  said  brokenly,  his  g^eat  chest 
heaving  with  every  word, — "I  want  you  because  I  can't  live 
without  you.  .  .  .  Will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"No!" 

"If  you  don't,"  he  said,  "I'll  blow  my  brains  out  in  your 
face." 

There  was  a  terrible  silence.     Then  he  said : 

"If  you  leave  this  room  I'll  kill  myself.  .  .  .  It's  up  to 
you,  now." 

Another  silence. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go?"  he  said. 


272  E  R  I  S 

"I — am  going."  She  picked  up  the  suitcase  and  make-up 
box.  Watching  him,  she  began  to  move  slowly  toward  the 
door — ^passed  him  where  he  was  standing,  slowly,  never 
taking  her  eyes  off  him. 

She  reached  the  door. 

"I  swear  I  will  do  it !"  he  shouted. 

She  looked  at  him  coolly  over  her  shoulder. 

"You  are  too  fond  of  yourself,"  she  said.   And  walked  on. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AT  the  head  of  the  stairway    Eris,  carrying  her  suit- 
case and  make-up  box,  encountered  Flynn,  the  voluble 
doorkeeper,  coming  upstairs. 

"Miss  Odell,"  he  began,  half  way  up,  "the  same  gentle- 
man that  tillyphoned  you  is  downstairs  askin'  for  you  with 
a  taxi-cab.  I  wouldn't  leave  him  come  up  after  what  the 
Governor  told  me.  'No,  sir,'  says  I,  'ye  can't  see  Miss 
Odell.  I  have  me  orders,'  says  I,  'and  I'm  door  watch 
here,'  says  I,  'and  whin  the  Governor  says  to  me,  "Flynn, 
do  this;  Flynn,  do  that,"  be  gob  it's  meself  that  does  ut!' 
Was  I  right,  Miss  Odell?" 

"I  couldn't  see  any  newspaper  man  now,"  she  assented, 
nervously. 

"So  I  told  Mr.  Annan,  Miss,"  commented  the  doorkeeper, 
relieving  her  of  her  baggage. 

"Was  it  fte  who  telephoned?  I — I  understood  it  was  a 
Herald  man " 

She  continued  on  down  the  stairs,  followed  voluWy  by 
Flynn.  Outside  the  barred  gate  she  saw  Annan  standing 
beside  a  taxi-cab.  Flynn  opened  the  wicket.  She  went 
out. 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  you,"  she  said.  "They  misin- 
formed me.     I'm  so  sorry." 

The  girl  looked  white  and  tired.  One  shoulder  of  her 
frail  summer  gown  was  torn  to  the  elbow  and  there  were 
red  bruises  on  the  skin  already  turning  darker. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded  bluntly,  retaining 
the  nervous  hand  she  had  offered  and  touching  her  torn 
sleeve  with  the  other, 

273 


«74.  E  R  I  S 

She  noticed  the  damage,  then,  for  the  first  time;  the  hot 
colour  swept  her  face. 

"An  accident,"  she  murmured.  "The  place  is  impassable 
— a  jungle  of  lumber  and  knocked-down  sets.  .  .  .  Will 
you  please  drive  me  home,  Barry  ?" 

"WhereisMr.  SmuU?" 

She  lifted  her  gaze  to  the  man  beside  her,  then  calmly 
turned  to  Flynn  and  bade  him  place  her  luggage  in  the  taxi. 
Something  in  Annan's  eyes  had  alarmed  her. 

"Is  SmuU  here  ?"  he  repeated. 

She  did  not  answer. 

An  instant  vision  of  Smull's  heavy  black  pistol  and 
a  swift  intuition  that  Smull  was  capable  of  using  it  on 
anybody  except  himself, — these  thoughts  paralysed  her 
tongue. 

She  looked  dumbly  at  Annan.  The  stillness  of  his  drawn 
face  terrified  her. 

"Barry,  coaie  with  me ** 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  but  she  caught  his  hands  des- 
perately. 

"Help  me,"  she  whispered,  "I  need  you.  I  tell  you  I 
need  you " 

"I'm  going  to  help  you." 

"Barry !     You  will  destroy  me !" 

She  meant  that  he  would  destroy  himself,  but  intuition 
shaped  her  speech. 

"I  want  you  to  take  me  home,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "It  is  the 
first  thing  I  ever  asked  of  you.     Will  you  do  it?" 

"Could  you  wait  till  I — speak — to  Smull?" 

"No.     Take  me  now!" 

He  hesitated.  She  had  clasped  his  arm.  Her  weight  on 
it  was  heavy;  her  face  had  grown  deadly  pale.  He  looked 
at  her  closely ;  looked  down  at  her  torn  sleeve. 

"Is — is  it  anything  that  he  did?"  he  demanded  harshly. 

She  put  out  one  hand  blindly,  reaching  for  the  cab  door; 
wrenched  it  open;  sagged  heavily  on  his  arm.     He  almost 


E  R I  S  275 

lifted  her  into  the  vehicle;  and  she  crumpled  up  in  the 
corner,  her  eyes  closing, 

Annan  spoke  to  the  driver,  cast  a  quick,  grim  look  at  the 
gate,  then  turned  and  jumped  into  the  cab. 

"Now,"  he  said,  drawing  her  head  to  his  shoulder,  "we 
won't  talk  until  we  get  home.  If  you  feel  faint  we  can 
stop  at  a  chemist's.     Lie  quietly,  dear." 

She  lay  against  his  shoulder,  perfectly  inert — so  still 
that,  at  moments,  he  leaned  over  to  see  her  face,  fearing  she 
had  fainted. 

Neither  uttered  a  word.  His  thoughts  had  made  glim- 
mering slits  of  his  eyes  and  had  set  the  hard  muscles  work- 
ing around  his  jaws. 

But  all  the  girl  thought  of  was  to  get  him  away  from 
that  heavy  black  pistol  and  from  the  man  whose  neck  had 
swollen  red  behind  the  ears. 

For  suddenly  in  that  moment  when  she  had  seen  that 
terrifying  expression  on  Annan's  face,  a  new  and  vital 
truth  had  flashed  clear  as  crystal  in  her  brain.  She  saw  it; 
saw  through  it ;  knew  it  for  Truth. 

With  her.  Truth  was  always  final.  It  settled  everything 
for  her  in  whom  no  tiniest  seed  of  self-deception  ever  had 
germinated. 

And  Eris  knew  now  that  whatever  became  of  her  career, 
this  man  beside  her,  who  was  her  lover,  was  something 
more,  too.  He  was  a  care.  He  was  a  responsibility.  He 
was  something  to  be  defended ;  something  to  be  guided. 

For  in  that  instant  of  fear  in  his  behalf  her  whole  being 
responded  with  passionate  solicitude. 

Now  she  was  beginning  to  comprehend  that  this  solici- 
tude for  him  must  always  be  hers  while  life  endured;  that 
the  overwhelming  instinct  to  defend,  protect,  guide  the  man 
who  must  always  be  a  boy  for  her,  dominated  all  else ;  and 
would  always  rule  her  every  thought  and  motive ;  her  every 
plan,  every  action. 

She  was  beginning  to  understand  that  she  must  have  her 


876  E  R I  S 

way  with  him  as  a  mother  with  her  son ;  that,  to  do  so,  she 
must  contrive,  scheme,  prepare,  foresee,  and  above  all,  love. 

And,  above  everything,  even  love, — if  truly  in  her  life 
this  man  had  become  the  passion  paramount — she  must  be 
prepared  to  give.  And  supreme,  even  above  love  and  above 
giving,  she  must  give  up ! 

She  lay  imstirring  on  his  shoulder,  her  lids  drooping, 
thinking,  understanding,  searching,  accepting. 

It  had  happened.  It  was  true.  Chiefest  of  all  in  life, 
and  suddenly,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  had  become 
the  passionate  necessity  for  the  happiness  and  well  being  of 
this  man. 

And  she  knew  that  she  would  give  her  life  without  a 
second's  hesitation  to  protect  his.  And  she  knew  that  in 
her  heart,  her  mind,  her  soul,  he  came  first.  And  all  that 
even  most  remotely  pertained  to  him.  And  then,  only, 
came  herself.  Which  was  her  career.  The  career,  hardly 
begun,  to  which  she  had  dedicated  all  the  best  in  her  of 
belief  and  effort.  The  career  which,  germinating,  had 
filled  her  ardent  heart  of  a  child,  which  had  budded  in  girl- 
hood, and  was  in  earliest  blossom,  now.  The  career  for 
which  she  had  so  gratefully  gone  shabby,  had  starved,  had 
slept  under  the  stars  in  public  parks. 

Lying  there  on  his  breast  she  felt  it  slipping  away — slip- 
ping through  her  slendei  fingers  on  his  breast.  And  if,  for 
an  instant,  her  small  fingers  clutched  at  what  was  slipping 
through  them,  it  was  his  coat  she  grasped.  And  held, 
tightly,  knowing  now  what  truly  was  her  goal  and  what 
above  all  else  she  must  hold  her  whole  life  through. 

"Dear,"  he  said  gently,  "we  are  here.  Do  you  feel 
strong  enough  to  stand,  or  shall  I  carry  you  ?" 

If  her  smile  were  faintly  wise  it  also  was  tenderly  iron- 
ical. God  knew — and  had  whispered  to  her — who  it  was 
between  these  two  who  would  do  the  carrying;  and  who  it 
would  be  who  was  carried  by  the  stronger. 


E  R  I  S  277 

"Darling,"  she  murmured,  "you're  so  funny.  I  only 
needed  a  nap  because  I  didn't  sleep  last  night." 

"Have  you  really  been  asleep,  Eris  ?" 

"Well,  I  had  visions,  anyhow.  Please  pay  this  fright- 
fully expensive  taxi  and  carry  up  my  luggage,  because 
Hattie  has  left  and  I'm  going  to  cook  our  dinner." 

They  climbed  the  bare  and  poorly  lighted  stairs.  Eris 
fumbled  for  her  keys,  selected  the  right  one,  and  opened  the 
door.     The  whole  place  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  flowers. 

As  always,  the  girl's  gratitude  was  out  of  all  proportion 
for  anything  offered  her;  and  now,  in  the  living-room,  she 
stood  enchanted,  gazing  at  the  flowers,  touching  them  here 
and  there  with  finger  tip  and  lip. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "you  are  so  sweet  to  me,  Barry. 
.  .  .  And  you  must  have  brought  them  and  arranged  them 
while  I  was  out."  She  turned,  happily,  and  took  both  his 
hands.  And  saw  the  darkness  of  impending  trouble  in  his 
clouded  face. 

"Darling?"  she  exclaimed. 

"It's  nothing,  Eris.  .  .  .  That  miserable  wench  of  yours 
lied  about  you.  ...  I  suppose  I'd  better  tell  you " 

"What  did  she  say,  dear?" 

"That — I  can't ! — and  it  was  a  damned  lie " 

"Perhaps  it  wasn't.     Tell  me." 

"I'm  ashamed  to.  .  .  .  She  said  a  man  was  here — all 
night " 

"Oh,"  she  said  disdainfully,  "that  was  my  husband.  He 
pretended  to  be  ill  and  starving  and  I  let  him  in.  When  he 
got  inside  he  tried  to  bully  me.  So  I  locked  my  door;  and 
in  the  morning  I  turned  him  out." 

In  the  girl's  healthy  and  flushed  contempt,  making  of  a 
sinister  situation  only  a  squalid  commonplace,  the  boy's 
formless  fears — all  the  tragic  perplexity  faded,  burned  out 
in  a  wholesome  rage. 

But  into  her  grey  eyes  came  the  swift  shadow  of  anxiety 
again  and  she  took  hold  of  him,  impulsively,  by  both  elbows. 


278  E  R  I  S 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  with  you !"  she  cried  in  tender 
exasperation.  "Will  you  smooth  out  that  scowl  and  mind 
your  business,  darling?  I  can  manage  my  own  affairs. 
I've  never  been  afraid  of  anything — except  to-day.  My 
only  fear  in  the  world  is  that  you'll  get  into  mischief " 

"Well,  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  sit  still  and  let " 

"Will  you  mind  your  adorable  business,  Barry?  You 
worry  me.  You're  on  my  mind.  I've  got  to  marry  you  as 
soon  as  I  can  I  realise  that " 

He  caught  her  in  his  clasp,  fiercely. 

"I've  got  to " 

"You  promise  ?" 

"Good  heavens,  yes !"  she  looked  up  at  him,  laughing. 

Suddenly  her  eyes  filled.  She  tore  his  arms  away  and 
took  him  to  her  breast  in  a  fiercer,  closer  clasp.  Then  the 
long  tension  broke  with  her  cry : 

"Barry — Barry,"  she  breathed  brokenly,  "you  belong  to 
me — you're  my  boy!  You're  all  I  ever  owned  in  all  my  life 
that  really  belonged  to  me.  .  .  .  I — I  had  a — a  heifer" — 
she  was  laughing  hysterically — "but  I  had  to  sell  her — and 
they  kept  the  money.  ..." 

She  clung  to  him,  strained  him  to  her  in  an  abandon  of 
long-pent  need,  incoherent  between  convulsive  tears  and  the 
sobbing  laughter  that  shook  her  slender  body : 

"You  want  me,  you  need  me,  don't  you,  Barry?  You're 
lonely.  No  boy  ever  should  be  lonely.  It  is  the  wickedest 
thing  in  the  world — that  any  child  should  ever  be  lonely 
for  need  of  love.  .  .  .  You  are  a  child!  Mine!  You're 
all  I  care  about.  .  .  .  And  I'm  going  to  marry  you  because 
you  want  me  to — because  we  both  want  to — Barry,  my 
darling — ^my  boy  who  belongs  to  me " 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"D  EFORE  she  could  inherit  this  boy  who  had  willed  him- 
^-^  self  to  her,  Eris  had  to  do  everything  for  herself  and 
she  knew  it. 

For  a  day  or  two  she  abandoned  herself  utterly  to  Annan. 
Night  alone  separated  them.  Early  morning  saw  them 
united. 

The  hot,  sunny  July  days  they  spent  in  the  surf  at  Long 
Beach,  or  in  motoring  through  Westchester.  Evenings 
they  dined  together  on  some  cool  roof,  or  by  the  sea,  and 
returned  to  whisper  happy  intimacies  together  until  long 
into  the  morning  hours. 

Every  lovely  self -revelation  of  this  girl  more  utterly 
turned  the  boy's  head.  Desire  became  absolute  necessity. 
Necessity  became  dependence.  He  did  not  understand  that. 
He  supposed  the  dependence  was  hers — that,  in  the  turbu- 
lent torrent  of  Life  he  was  the  rock  to  which  she 
clung. 

It  was  well  that  he  thought  that.  It  was  well  that  she  let 
him  think  so.     It  always  is  best  for  a  man. 

Once,  during  those  heavenly  days,  he  met  Coltfoot  walk- 
ing with  Rosalind  Shore  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

"I  thought  Eris  would  break  with  Albert  Smull,"  drawled 
Rosalind.  "What  a  sketch  he  is ! — schmoozing  about  and 
telling  everybody  he  had  to  let  her  go!  Betsy's  got  him 
buffaloed.  He's  afraid  of  her  parents ;  that's  all  that  holds 
Albert.  ...  I  get  banged  around  a  lot,  but  Mom's  a  pretty 
good  policewoman,  and  God  help  the  Johnny  with  fancy 
intentions  towards  her  little  Rosie."  She  looked  at  Colt- 
foot,  standing  beside  her,  with  faintest  malice. 

279 


880  E  R  I  S 

Coltfoot's  sophisticated  retort  was  a  bored  smile.  But 
it  was  to  Annan  he  spoke,  asking  him  how  his  work  was 
going. 

"What  do  you  care  how  my  story  is  going?"  said  Annan, 
laughing.  "You're  an  enemy  to  realism,  and  that's  all  I 
write." 

"Realism !  You  don't  know  what  it  means,"  said  Colt- 
foot  bluntly.  "What  you  write  isn't  realism.  If  you  want 
realism,  study  your  pretty  friend  Eris !  She's  real.  Every- 
thing about  her  is  genuine.  Study  her  story.  That's 
realism.  Not  as  you  once  wrote  it,"  he  added  disgustedly, 
"but  devoid  of  ugliness  and  tragedy  and  sob-stuff.  She 
doesn't  whimper.  She  doesn't  know  how  to  pose.  The 
beau  geste  and  the  attitude  mean  nothing  to  her.  Sob-stuff 
is  wasted  on  her.  Health  never  snivels.  Do  you  get  that, 
Barry?  Health!  That's  the  key.  And  by  the  Eternal,  it 
is  the  usual,  not  the  unusual  that  is  wholesome.  The  great 
majority  are  healthy.  That's  realism.  And  when  health 
is  your  keynote  you  have  beauty,  too.  And  that  is  Realism, 
my  clever  friend !" 

"Am  I  real  because  I  am  beautiful,  Mike?"  drawled 
Rosalind,  "or  beautiful  because  I  am  real?" 

So  these  three  parted  with  the  light  jest  of  Rosalind 
floating  between  them  in  the  sunshine. 

But  Annan  went  on,  a  trifle  out  of  countenance,  to  keep 
a  rendezvous  with  Eris  at  the  Ritz. 

At  luncheon  he  said  abruptly:  "The  stuff  I  do,  Eris — 
you  know  I'd  like  your  opinion — I  mean  while  I'm  doing  it. 
...  Or  rather,  I'd  like  to  talk  over  the  story  with  you,  first, 
before  I  begin  it." 

The  girl  looked  up  over  her  peach-ice.  Her  eyes  were 
very  clear  and  still. 

"What  I  want,"  he  explained,  "is  a  perfectly  fresh  eye — a 
fresh  mind  and  a — a  bystander's  Doint  of  view.  .  .  .  Not 
that  I  don't  most  deeply  respect  you  as  an  artist " 


E  R I  S  «81 

"It  would  make  me  very  happy,"  she  said,  "to  have  your 
confidence  in  such  things." 

"Well,  I  have  a  lot  of  confidence  in  your  judgment.  I'd 
like  to  consult  you.  .  .  .  Perhaps — I  don't  know — ^no  man 
does  know  when  his  nose  is  too  close  to  his  work — but  I'm 
rather  afraid  I've  been  getting  away  from  things — facts — " 

Her  eyes  grew  tenderly  humorous :  "Whatever  you  get 
away  from,  Barry,  you  can't  ever  get  away  from  me,  I'm 
the  Nemesis  called  in  to  chasten  you  and  clip  those  irre- 
sponsible wings.  ...  I  know  a  little  about  wings.  I  used 
to  dream  of  them.     Do  you  remember  I  once  told  you  ?" 

"About  your  flight.  And  how  you  found  the  god  of 
Wisdom  seated  all  alone  on  the  peak  of  Parnassus  dissect- 
ing a  human  heart?" 

"So  you  remember." 

"Yes ;  and  I  remember  that  little  play  you  wrote  in  school 
— the  story  of  the  wish,  the  wings,  and  the  new  hat," 

She  laughed,  but  there  was  the  slightest  shadow  over  the 
grey  eyes.     The  shadow  which  renunciation  casts,  perhaps. 

"I  took  a  longer  flight  than  to  Olympus,"  she  said,  "and 
it  was  you  I  discovered  above  the  clouds; — ^all  by  yourself, 
Barry, — on  a  funny  little  world,  spinning  up  there " 

"Was  I  busy  dissecting  somebody's  heart  ?" 

"Mine — I  guess." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  sweetheart;  you  never  shall 
regret  marrying  me.  Never  shall  I  by  look  or  word  or 
deed  interfere  with  your  career.     If  I  do,  chuck  me!" 

She  smiled — that  tender,  intelligent  smile  which  lately 
was  one  of  her  charming  revelations  that  vaguely  surprised 
him.  For  the  gods  were  granting  her  a  little  time  yet — a 
little  respite  for  a  career  the  limit  of  which  already  was 
visible  to  her. 

He  had  told  her,  diffidently,  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  live 
economically;  that  what  he  had  was  hers,  also;  that  there 
always  was  sufficient  to  finance  any  arrangement  she  wished 
to  make  for  her  own  productions. 


«82  E  R  I  S 

But  the  girl  who  had  returned  a  hundred  dollars  to  him 
when  she  had  only  twenty  more  in  all  the  world  was  no 
more  capable  of  accepting  such  an  offer  than  of  request- 
ing it. 

Besides,  no  sooner  had  it  been  rumored  that  Eris  Odell 
and  Albert  Smull  no  longer  cooperated,  than  telegrams 
began  to  pour  in  from  all  sorts  of  people,  responsible  and 
irresponsible.  Offers  arrived  from  keen,  clever,  capable 
and  ruthless  producers,  with  releases  guaranteed,  and  who 
wished  to  fetter  her  for  years  at  the  lowest  figure;  from 
enthusiastic  people  new  in  the  game,  with  capital  guaran- 
teed but  no  release.  Scores  of  communications  came  from 
various  birds  of  prey  who  infest  the  fringes  of  the  profes- 
sion— the  "don't-do-anything-till-you-hear-from-me"  boys; 
the  noisy,  persistent  Gentile  who  lies  for  a  living  and  whose 
only  asset  is  the  people  he  traps ;  the  Jew,  penniless  and  dis- 
credited, determined  to  make  a  commission  out  of  anybody 
and  undeterred  by  the  dirt  of  the  transaction. 

All  of  these  communications  Eris  laid  before  Frank 
Donnell. 

Theirs  was  a  close  and  sober  friendship, — sombre  even, 
at  times — because  Frank  Donnell  had  been  in  love  with  her 
since  her  first  awkward  step  in  the  Betsy  Blythe  company. 
The  girl  knew  it ;  both  knew,  also,  that  the  matter  was  hope- 
less. 

And  for  Frank  Donnell,  Eris  was  conscious  of  a  gravely 
tender  affection  she  never  had  felt  for  anybody  else  in  her 
brief  life. 

He  had  saved  enough  money  to  finance  one  picture  for 
her ;  and  he  could  have  secured  guarantees  from  the  best  of 
the  releasing  companies  on  his  own  name  alone.  But, 
again,  it  was  one  of  those  things  that  Eris  could  not  do.  It 
was  desirable;  it  was  legitimate  business.  But  to  use  the 
resources  of  any  man  to  whom  she  had  given  any  intimate 
fragment  of  herself  was  not  possible  for  Eris. 

And,  although  Frank  Donnell  never  had  said  one  word  of 


E  R I  s  ass 

love  to  the  girl ;  and  she  always  had  ignored  a  fact  that  from 
the  beginning  had  been  touchingly  plain  to  her ;  there  never 
could  be  any  speculative  combination  between  them.  It 
was  her  way. 

But,  following  his  advice,  an  arrangement  had  been  made 
possible  for  one  year  between  her  and  a  great  producing 
company.  And  of  this  proposed  contract  she  informed 
Annan. 

Together  they  consulted  Annan's  attorney,  Judge  Wil- 
mer;  and  the  first  steps,  in  her  suit  for  annulment  of  that 
unconsummated  farce  of  marriage,  were  taken. 

Eris  had  not  thought  of  going  away  that  summer,  al- 
though her  contract  did  not  call  her  to  report  for  duty  until 
October. 

But  early  in  August  she  began  to  feel  a  desire  to  be  alone 
for  a  while — a  need  for  solitude, — leisure  for  self-exami- 
nation. 

Lately,  too,  she  had  thought  much  of  her  home.  Not 
that  she  missed  the  people  who  inhabited  it.  There  never 
had  been  any  tie  between  her  and  her  father. 

But  the  girl  cherished  no  resentment  toward  him.  And 
toward  Mazie  all  her  instincts  always  had  been  friendly. 

Often  she  had  thought  of  Whitewater  Farms,  not  regret- 
ting, not  even  missing  the  home  where  she  had  been  born, 
tmwelcomed. 

Yet,  in  these  last  weeks,  a  desire  to  go  home  for  a  while 
had  developed,  and  had  slowly  increased  to  a  point  where 
she  coupled  it  with  her  increasing  necessity  for  quiet  and 
rest. 

The  girl  was  tired — saddened  a  little,  perhaps.  That  is 
the  aftermath  of  all  effort,  the  reaction  from  all  attainment, 
the  shadow  that  dogs  knowledge.  And  it  is  the  white 
shadow  cast  by  Happiness. 

There  were  other  things,  too,  which  directed  her  thoughts 
unconsciously  toward  the  only  home  she  ever  had  known. 

Eddie  Carter  had  been  annoying  her  again.     She  never 


284  E  R I  S 

spoke  to  Annan  about  it.  But  her  husband  was  always 
writing  to  her,  now.  Every  few  days  brought  begging 
letters,  maudlin  appeals,  veiled  threats  concerning  Albert 
Smull's  supposed  attentions  to  her, — maundering,  wander- 
ing, incoherent  epistles  born  of  the  drugs  he  used,  perhaps. 

And  this  was  not  all.  Little  Leopold  Shill,  Smull's 
partner,  wrote  to  her  in  behalf  of  Smull,  begging  her  to 
pardon  his  unpardonable  offences,  expressing  concern  over 
Smull's  desperate  state  of  mind,  begging  her  to  be  generous 
and  merciful  to  a  man  whose  flagrant  conduct  had  been  due 
to  love  alone — to  a  mighty  and  overwhelming  passion  which 
bewildered  him  and  made  him  really  irresponsible. 

To  Leopold  Shill's  two  letters  she  made  no  reply.  And 
Shill  did  not  write  again.  But  Smull  did.  He  had  been 
writing  to  her  twice  a  day.  She  never  replied.  After  thfe 
first  letter  she  destroyed  the  others  without  opening  them. 

But  the  annoyance  was  telling  on  her. 

Sometimes,  from  her  window,  she  saw  Smull's  limousine 
pass  and  repass  her  door,  and  the  man's  red  face  at  the 
window  peering  up  at  her  house. 

At  times  the  car  stood  for  hours  on  Greenwich  Avenue, 
where  its  occupant  commanded  a  view  of  Jane  Street. 

More  than  once,  on  the  street,  Smull  had  accosted  her, 
even  followed  on  behind  her. 

Lately,  too,  it  became  apparent  to  the  girl  that  her  hus- 
band also  had  been  watching  and  spying  on  her,  because  he 
wrote  a  violent,  crazy  letter  insisting  that  she  warn  Smull 
to  keep  his  car  out  of  her  neighbourhood : 

" — I've  been  keeping  tabs  on  you,"  he  wrote.  "Now,  I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  that"— unprintable  epithets  followed,  nause- 
ating Eris;.and  she  burned  the  letter  without  reading  the 
remainder. 

One  evening  in  early  August  Albert  Smull,  standing 
beside  his  car  on  Greenwich  Avenue  and  waiting  for  Eris  to 
leave  her  house,  noticed  a  shabby  individual  apparently 
watching  him  from  the  opposite  corner. 


E  R  I  S  285 

On  a  similar  occasion,  a  day  or  two  later,  he  noticed  the 
same  shabby  man  on  the  same  corner,  staring  steadily  across 
the  street  at  him. 

After  a  few  recurrent  glances,  a  vague  idea  came  into 
Smull's  brain  that  the  shabby  man's  features  were  familiar 
to  him. 

Ordinary  cowardice  was  not  Smull's  kind.  He  walked 
leisurely  across  the  street  and  came  up  to  the  shabby  man 
and  coolly  scrutinised  him. 

"Well,  by  God,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  thought  I'd  seen  you 
before.  I  heard  you  were  out  of  prison.  What's  your 
graft  now,  Eddie?" 

"Yours,"  replied  Carter. 

Smull,  puzzled,  awaited  further  explanation.  Carter, 
twitching  all  over,  stood  digging  at  the  bleeding  roots  of  his 
finger  nails. 

"Well,"  inquired  Smull  with  his  close-eyed,  sanguine 
smile,  "what  do  you  suppose  is  my  graft,  Eddie?" 

"My  wife." 

"Hey?" 

"My  wife,  Eris  Carter." 

Smull's  features  turned  a  heavy  crimson.  After  a 
silence : 

"So  that's  the  situation,"  he  said  heavily. 

Carter  ceased  twitching.  He  said  very  distinctly: 
"When  you  and  Shill  sent  me  up  the  River,  that's  what  you 
did  to  me,  too.  .  .  .  On  the  day  I  was  married  to  her,  that's 
what  you  did  to  me.  You  made  a  crook  out  of  me  because 
you  didn't  pay  me  living  wages  when  I  worked  for  you. 
Then  you  made  a  jail-bird  out  of  me.  Now,  you've  made 
me  a  bum. 

"And  that  isn't  enough  for  you.  You  want  to  make  a 
prostitute  out  of  my  wife." 

"Shut  your  filthy  mouth,"  said  Smull  coolly. 

"I'll  stop  your  filthy  mouth  if  you  don't  keep  away  from 
my  wife,"  said  Carter  in  a  still,  uncanny  voice. 


286  E  R I  S 

SmuU  laughed.     "Beat  it,"  he  said. 

And,  as  Carter  did  not  stir :  "Get  a  move  on,  you  dirty 
bum.  Come  on !  ...  Or  shall  I  have  to  htmt  up  a  cop  to 
g^ve  you  the  bum's  rush?" 

Carter's  visage  turned  ghastly : 

"All  right ;  I'll  go.  .  .  .  But  you'll  go  farther  yet  if  you 
don't  let  my  wife  alone." 

He  took  one  step  toward  Smull,  hesitated,  then,  twitching 
all  over,  he  turned  and  shuffled  away  down  Greenwich 
Avenue,  digging  his  thumbnails  into  his  mangled  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

T7  RIS  went  home  early  in  August. 
-^  One  fine  afternoon,  a  week  later,  lonely  as  a  dog  that 
has  lost  its  master,  and,  like  a  lost  dog,  finding  all  things  per- 
plexing in  the  absence  of  the  Beloved,  Annan,  wandering 
along,  chanced  to  pass  one  of  the  great  Broadway  picture- 
theatres;  and  noticed  Betsy  Blythe  and  Rosalind  Shore 
standing  in  the  lobby. 

They  always  welcomed  him  with  affection.  They  did  so 
now.  Betsy  fairly  bubbled  energy,  radiant  in  the  warm 
sun-rays  of  success,  impatient  for  further  triumphs,  excited, 
gossipy,  cordial,  voluble. 

"I  told  Albert  Smull  I  wouldn't  renew  my  contract  unless 
Frank  Donnell  went  with  it,"  she  said.  "And  I've  nailed 
Frank  for  five  more  years,  Barry, — and  my  camera-man, 
too.  That  is  the  only  way  to  handle  people — tell  them 
exactly  where  they  get  off.  And  off  they'll  get  every 
time!" 

"I'd  like,"  remarked  Rosalind  lazily,  "to  see  anybody 
handle  Mom  that  way." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  season?"  inquired  Annan 
without  much  curiosity. 

"Sing  a  little  song  in  a  punk  little  play,  for  that's  where 
I  belong  and  that's  my  little  lay." 

"She's  got  a  sure  fire  comedy,"  added  Betsy,  "and  she's 
the  whole  show.  She  wears  practically  nothing,  by  the 
way.     But  it's  horribly  expensive." 

"Where  does  it  get  me?"  drawled  Rosalind.  "I'm  fed 
up.     /  don't  want  to  work." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?"  inquired  Annan,  amused. 

287 


288  E  R I  S 

"You'd  be  surprised.  ...  I'd  like  to  get  married  and 
quit. 

"Betsy  knows.  I'll  tell  you,  too,  ducky.  I'd  like  to 
marry  Mike." 

"Who?"  he  demanded,  astonished. 

"Mike  Coltfoot,  ducky.  He  makes  a  living.  And  I 
make  Mom's.  There's  the  hitch.  Mom  would  have  my 
life.     And  Mike  would  draw  a  corpse." 

Annan  took  her  by  both  hands:  "Bless  your  nice  little 
heart,"  he  said,  "I  never  dreamed  that  you  and  Mike  cared 
for  each  other." 

"I  don't  know  how  he  feels;  I  only  know  how  he  says  he 
feels,"  she  said  cynically.  "But,  oh  God,  the  fireworks  if 
Mom  gets  next!     Do  you  wonder  I'm  fed  up  with  work?" 

Betsy  said:  "I  tell  her  that  if  she  feels  that  way  about 
her  profession  she'd  better  walk  out  on  her  mother  and 
marry  Mike.  I  follow  what  I  love.  Every  person  ought 
to.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  what  has  become  of  Eris,  Barry  ?" 

"She  has  gone  home  for  a  rest,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"Where?     Back  to  the  pigs  and  cows?" 

He  reddened.  "She's  gone  to  her  home  at  Whitewater 
Farms." 

After  he  had  departed,  Betsy  looked  at  Rosalind;  her 
rosy  mouth  made  a  small  oval. 

"What  did  I  do  to  himf  she  asked. 

"He's  spiked,"  nodded  the  latter.  "I'm  spiked  myself, 
but  if  ever  you  see  me  as  solemn  about  it  as  Barry  is,  why, 
kick  my  shins,  dear,  and  accept  gratitude  in  advance." 

Then  she  turned  to  shake  hands  with  Coltfoot,  who  came 
sauntering  up,  hat  in  hand. 

"Hello,  old  top,"  she  said.  "You're  half  an  hour  late, 
but  I'd  wait  a  lifetime  for  anybody  who  resembles  you. 
Come  on  in  and  see  Betsy  cut  up  on  the  scr-r-r-een !" 

Since  the  departure  of  Eris,  Annan's  appetite  had  become 
an  increasing  source  of  worry  to  Mrs.  Sniff  en. 


E  R I S  289 

That  evening  he  left  most  of  his  dinner  untouched. 
When  he  had  been  writing  all  day  he  often  did  that.  But 
he  had  done  no  writing  for  days. 

To  Mrs.  Sniffen's  fears  and  remonstrances  he  turned  a 
deaf  ear,  denying  that  he  was  not  perfectly  well. 

"When  does  the  last  mail  arrive?"  he  asked.  He  asked 
her  this  every  evening,  now,  and  she  always  instructed  him, 
but  he  seemed  to  forget. 

He  went  upstairs  to  his  study,  dropped  onto  the  lounge, 
lighted  a  pipe.  What  else  was  he  to  do— with  the  main- 
spring broken. 

He  didn't  want  to  work.  He  didn't  intend  to  do  any 
more  writing,  anyway,  without  the  close  cooperation  of 
Eris.  Something,  evidently,  was  the  matter  with  his  work 
and  he  was  certain  that  she  was  capable  of  telling  him  what 
it  was.  He  knew  that  he  was  going  to  take  a  new  view  of 
things  in  general,  but  he  wanted  her  to  point  it  out.  He 
wanted  to  start  right;  and  be  kept  on  the  track  for  a  while 
until  accustomed. 

That,  insensibly,  he  had  become  dependent  upon  the  mind 
of  another  person,  did  not  occur  to  him.  At  least  not 
definitely. 

He  realised  that  the  world  meant  Eris,  and  that  without 
Eris  he  had  no  other  interest  in  the  world,  now. 

And,  to  this  man  who  never  before  had  evinced  any 
interest  in  the  world  except  as  it  concerned  himself,  it  did 
not  seem  odd  that  every  vital  principle  in  him  now  surged 
around  and  enveloped  this  girl.  The  girl  he  had  found 
asleep  in  a  public  park. 

Wherever  he  went,  whatever  he  was  doing,  his  mind 
was  on  her.  Not  selfishly;  although  a  deep  instinct  was 
always  telling  him  that  whatever  real  work  he  ever  was  to 
do  would  come  through  her. 

Nor  did  he  seem  to  think  it  odd  that  his  personal  ambition 
now  remained  in  abeyance.  Fluency,  too,  seemed  to  have 
departed :  nimble  mind  and  facile  pen,  the  careless  arrogance 


290  E  R I S 

of  youth  and  power,  the  almost  effortless  ability,  flippant 
juggling  with  phrase  and  word,  and  the  gay  contempt  for 
the  emotion  with  which  his  audience  responded  when  he 
tossed  up  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  let  them  fall  into 
words — all  these  seem  to  have  died. 

Without  analysing  it  he  was  feeling  already  the  tension 
of  a  new  gravity  in  his  character.  It  came,  perhaps,  from 
the  constant  presence  of  an  unknown  god — the  one  that 
always  seemed  to  be  waiting  at  the  elbow  of  Eris — waiting 
to  be  recognized  before  speaking.  The  god  with  a  thousand 
faces  whose  name  is  Truth. 

He  appeared  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  Eris.  But 
Annan  had  not  yet  become  familiar  with  his  faces. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

"IXTHEN  Kris  decided  to  go  home  she  gave  her  lover  a 
^  ^      few  hours'  notice  and  went  without  further  prelimi- 
naries or  fuss. 

Annan  met  her  in  the  station, — a  very  sober-faced  yoimg 
man,  solemn  and  sad. 

It  was  she  who  offered  the  serious  kiss  of  parting;  she 
who  retained  his  hand,  tender,  reluctant,  candidly  concerned 
as  to  his  health  and  welfare  if  left  for  a  while  entirely  self- 
responsible. 

Neither  saw  any  humour  in  the  situation. 

"Please  write  me  every  evening,  Barry,"  she  urged.  "And 
if  you  don't  sleep  well,  take  a  glass  of  hot  milk  when  you 
go  to  bed." 

"All  right,  but  how  about  you?" 

"Oh,  I'll  let  you  hear  from  me,"  she  nodded  absently; 
" — but  I  shall  be  rather  anxious  if  you  fail  to  write  me  every 
evening.    You  won't  neglect  to  do  it,  will  you?" 

Finally  he  began  to  think  her  solicitude  was  mildly  funny. 

"If  I  had  a  mother,"  he  said,  "that's  about  what  she'd  say 
to  me.  Who  do  you  think  is  running  this  outfit,  anyway. 
Eris?" 

"You,  darling." 

His  masculine  smile  made  this  obvious.  And  the  solemn 
directions  he  gave  her  about  danger  of  catching  cold  in  a 
country  house,  about  changing  shoes  and  stockings  when 
she  came  indoors,  and  his  warning  concerning  fried  foods 
and  sudden  change  of  drinking  water  were  specimens  of 
psychological  self-assertion  which  settled  his  real  status. 

291 


292  E  R I  S 

They  kissed  again  as  soberly  as  two  children.     She  fol- 
lowed her  Red  Cap  through  the  gates,  not  looking  back. 
He  turned  again  to  a  city  desolate. 

The  journey  proved  tedious  and  hot.  Her  Pullman  porter 
brought  her  a  paper-bag  for  her  new  straw  hat.  He  brought 
her  a  pillow,  also;  and  luncheon  later. 

She  had  plenty  of  reading  matter  provided  by  Annan,  but 
it  lay  unopened  on  her  lap;  and  Annan's  fruit,  bon-bons, 
and  flowers  lay  on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

All  that  sunny  morning  and  early  afternoon  she  lay  list- 
lessly in  her  chair,  watching  the  celebrated  and  deadly  mo- 
notonous river,  content  to  rest,  unstirring,  unthinking,  her 
grey  eyes  partly  closed,  the  water  a  running  glimmer  between 
her  fringing  lashes. 

At  East  Summit  she  changed  to  the  local.  She  recognised 
the  conductor  who  took  her  ticket,  but  it  was  evident  he  did 
not  know  her,  and  she  was  content  to  let  it  go  that  way. 

Familiar  farms  sped  into  view,  fled  past,  succeeded  by  re- 
membered hills  and  brooks  and  woods. 

Reaping  already  was  in  progress  on  some  farms.  She 
noted,  mechanically,  the  cattle  as  she  passed  through  a  dairy 
country.  Mostly  Holsteins.  She  saw  a  few  Ayrshires 
with  their  Noah's  Ark  horns ;  a  herd  or  two  of  Guernse>'s — 
not  to  be  compared  to  the  Whitewater  cattle  as  she  remem- 
bered them. 

Summit  Centre  held  the  train  until  people  finished  getting 
on  and  off,  and  the  last  crate  of  raspberries  was  aboard. 

Summit  and  the  great  Sanitarium  came  next.  It  was  here 
she  had  seen  her  first  picture-folk  in  action.  A  little  tighten- 
ing of  lip  and  heart — lest  any  atom  of  courage  escape — then 
the  train  moved  on. 

West  Summit — a  cross-roads,  no  more.  And  after  a  little 
while,  Whitewater. 

She  got  out  with  her  suitcase,  her  books,  illustrated  papers, 
bon-bons,  fruit,  and  flowers.     A  number  of  people  looked 


E  R I  S  293 

twice  at  her  to  be  certain  before  speaking.  Men  looked 
oftener,  shy  of  speaking. 

She  returned  greetings  smiUngly,  exchanged  common- 
places when  necessary,  aware  but  indifferent  to  the  curiosity 
visible  in  every  face. 

There  was  a  new  bus  driver.  She  gave  him  the  baggage- 
check,  got  into  the  vehicle  with  hand  luggage,  flowers, 
books,  periodicals,  bon-bons,  and  fruit. 

Two  commercial  men  bound  for  Whitewater  Inn  were 
inclined  to  assiduous  politeness.  She  remained  scarcely 
aware  of  them.  She  exchanged  salutations  with  Gumbert, 
the  butcher,  who  got  off  at  his  shop.  Otherwise,  her  fellow 
travellers  were  unknown  to  her  and  unnoticed. 

It  was  a  mile  to  Whitewater  Farms. 

The  country  looked  very  lovely.  It  had  rained  that  morn- 
ing; grass  and  foliage  were  fresh;  gullies  still  ran  water; 
brooks  gurgled  bank  high. 

The  sun,  low  in  a  cloudless  sky,  flung  rosy  rays  across 
green  uplands  and  here  and  there  a  few  acres  of  early 
stubble.  Trees  cast  long  bluish  shadows.  Cattle  were  be- 
ginning to  wander  toward  the  home-lane.  It  would  be  near 
milking  time  at  Whitewater  Farms. 

And  now,  leaning  wide  of  her  window  in  the  clumsy  bus, 
she  could  see  the  gilded  weather-cock  a-glitter  on  the  main 
barn  and  swallows  circling  above  brick  chimneys. 

At  the  front  gate  her  trunk  was  dumped.  She  paid  the 
driver  fifty  cents ;  watched  him  drive  away ;  then  turned  and 
looked  at  the  white  house  with  green  shutters,  where  she 
had  been  bom.    It  had  been  newly  painted. 

The  world  seemed  very  still  there.  She  set  her  suitcase 
beside  her  trunk,  laid  flowers,  books,  periodicals,  fruit,  bon- 
bons on  top  of  it,  and  walked  slowly  around  the  house  to 
the  dairy. 

One  of  her  half-brothers,  Cyrus,  came  out  in  his  white, 
sterilised  milking  jacket  and  trousers,  chewing  gum. 


294  ERIS 

"Well,  f  r  Gawd's  sake,"  he  said  when  the  slow  recogni- 
tion had  been  accomplished. 

She  offered  her  gloved  hand  and  he  took  it  with  a  plow- 
man's clasp  and  wrung  it,  shifting  from  one  leg  to  the 
other — rural  expression  of  cordiality — legs  alone  eloquent. 

Commonplaces  said,  she  made  inquiries  and  learned  that 
everybody  was  well. 

"Go  right  in,  Eris!  Pa's  getting  into  his  milkin'  duds; 
Ma  she's  cookin'  supper.     Go  right  in.  Sis!     I  guess  you 

know  the  way "  loud  laughter  and  a  large  red  hand 

under  her  arm  to  pilot  and  encourage. 

In  the  kitchen  Mazie  turned  from  the  range,  then  set  aside 
a  skillet,  wiped  both  hands  on  her  apron,  and  took  Eris  to 
her  ample  bosom. 

When  she  had  kissed  her  stepdaughter  sufficiently :  "Pa !" 
she  called,  "oh,  Pa !  Get  your  pants  on  and  come  down  here 
quick!" 

Elmer  was  already  on  his  way  downstairs,  clump,  clump, 
clump.  He  halted  at  the  kitchen  door,  buttoning  his  snowy 
jacket,  gaping  stolidly  at  Fanny's  child. 

For  he  knew  her  instantly — Eris,  daughter  of  Discord. 

"Hello,  Dad,"  she  said  uncertainly. 

"Hello.  .  .  .  Waal,  waal,  I'll  be  jiggered!  Waal,  dang 
it  all!  ...  So  you  took  a  notion  to  come  back,  did  you?" 

"If  you'll  let  me  stay  for  a  little  while " 

"Why,  Eris,  how  you  talk!'  exclaimed  Mazie.  "This  is 
your  home;  ain't  it,  Pa?" 

Elmer  buttoned  the  last  button  of  his  milking  jacket: 

"She  can  stay  if  she's  a  mind  to.  She  alius  does  as  she's 
a  mind  to,"  he  replied  grimly. 

"Now  you  quit.  Pa,"  remonstrated  Mazie,  cheerily.  "Eris, 
you  go  right  up  to  your  own  room.  Everything's  just  like 
you  left  it.  Where's  your  trunk?  All  right;  Si  and  Buddy 
will  take  it  up."  And  to  her  husband:  "Pa,  I'm  surprised 
at  you.  Ain't  you  a-going  to  shake  hands  with  your  own 
daughter?" 


E  R I  S  295 

"Gimme  a  chance,"  he  grunted. 

He  offered  Fanny's  child  a  homy  paw,  gave  her  fingers 
one  pump-like  jerk. 

"Time  you  come  home,"  he  observed.  "I  guess  you  want 
your  caaf  money,  don't  you?" 

"Not  if  you  need  it,"  she  replied  tranquilly.  "Is  the  farm 
doing  well,  Dad  ?" 

Mazie  said,  laughingly :  "He's  only  foolin*.  He's  making 
more  money  than  he  can  spend,  Eris,  You  take  your  heifer- 
money  when  you're  good  and  ready.  It's  down  to  the  bank 
and  all  safe  and  snug." 

Eris  smiled  at  them  both:  "Where's  that  blue  checked 
gingham  dress  of  mine?"  she  inquired.  "If  it's  clean  I 
want  to  milk." 

"I  guess  you've  kinda  forgotten  how,"  drawled  Elmer.    . 
"You  jest  better  set  and  rock  and  read  into  them  novels  you 
alius  liked " 

"I  want  to  milk,"  she  repeated  with  a  humorous  glance 
at  Mazie. 

"Come  right  up  to  your  room  then,  Eris.  I'll  show  you 
where  I  put  that  gingham."  And,  to  Elmer:  "You  hush 
your  face,  Pa.  Eris  can  milk  any  cow  she's  a  mind  to. 
Come  along,  Eris " 

But  the  girl  lingered  on  the  stairs:  "What  is  the  herd 
bull's  name.  Dad?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"We  got  White  Cloud  now.  Lemme  see, — was  it  White- 
water Chieftain  when  you  was  here " 

"Yes.  ...  I  want  to  see  the  herd  come  in.  I'll  hurry, 
Dad " 

She  ran  upstairs  after  Mazie. 

Her  father  passed  his  huge  hand  over  his  face  absently; 
then,  very  deliberately,  he  scratched  his  grizzled  head. 

Si  broke  the  silence :  "She's  a  hum-dinger,  Pa.  I'll  say 
so. 

"Hey?"  grunted  Elmer,  scowling  at  his  son. 

"Ain't  she?"  insisted  Cyrus. 


296  E  R I  S 

"Waal,  I  dunno.     She  dresses  kinda  tidy." 

"She  looks  like  she  did  when  we  all  seen  her  on  the 
screen,"  said  Si.  "I  guess  she's  made  her  pile.  They  all  get 
big  wages  in  the  movies.  You  gotta  go  to  the  city  to  make 
big  money " 

"G'wan  down  to  the  barn,"  said  his  father  drily. 

The  first  murmur  of  discord  already:  and  Fanny's  child 
scarcely  arrived! 

Elmer's  frowning  face  was  lifted  to  the  floor  overhead — 
a  moment — then,  heavily  he  followed  his  own  and  unmis- 
takable offspring  down  to  the  milking  bam. 

In  her  room  the  sight  of  objects  long  forgotten  filled  her 
heart ; — and  the  odour  of  the  house,  the  particular  odour  of 
her  own  room — melange  of  dyed  curtains,  cheap  wall-paper, 
ingrain  carpet — a  musty,  haunting  odour  with  a  slight  aroma 
of  fresh  air  filtered  by  forests. 

Two  of  her  half-brothers  appeared  with  her  luggage. 

Buddy,  grown  fat  and  huge,  shyly  shook  hands  with  her 
and  fled.  Mazie  kissed  her  again  and  retired,  taking  Si  with 
her,  whose  fascinated  gaze  had  never  stirred  from  the  only 
real  actress  he  ever  had  beheld. 

Eris  seldom  cried.  But  now  she  sat  down  on  her  bed's 
edge  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows. 

Tears  flowed — tears  of  relaxation  from  strain,  perhaps. 
And  perhaps  the  girl  wept  a  little  because  she  really  had 
nothing  here  to  weep  for — no  deep  ties  to  renew,  no  intimate 
memories  of  tenderness. 

Bathed,  her  bobbed  hair  hatless,  and  in  gingham  and 
apron,  Eris  went  downstairs  and  out  across  the  grass. 

Below,  winding  into  the  barn-yard,  tonk-a-tonk,  tonk-a- 
tonk,  came  the  Whitewater  herd.  Here  and  there  a  heifer 
balked  and  frisked;  now  and  then  a  cow  lowed;  and  the 
great  herd-bull.  White  Cloud,  set  the  barn  vibrating  with 
his  thunderous  welcome  to  the  returning  herd. 

Red  sunshine  poured  through  the  lane,  bronzing  the  silky 


E  R  I  S  297 

coats  of  moving  cattle.  Overhead,  martins  twittered  and 
dipped  and  circled.  There  was  the  scent  of  milk  in  the  still 
air — of  clover,  and  of  distant  woods. 

In  the  milking  barn  she  encountered  old  Ed  Lister.  He 
seemed  to  have  grown  much  older,  and  there  was  a  dim 
bluish  look  to  his  eyes. 

Eris  shook  hands  with  him. 

"How-de-do,"  he  said,  peering  at  her.  And  answered, 
**Yes,  marm,"  and  "No,  marm,"  as  though  in  his  mind 
there  was  some  slight  confusion  concerning  her  identity. 

She  passed  along  the  stanchions,  petting  and  caressing 
the  beautiful  creatures,  dropping  handfuls  of  bran,  tossing 
in  a  little  clover-hay. 

Everywhere  satin-smooth  coats  were  being  wiped  off, 
udders  bathed  in  tepid  water.  The  cattle  were  busy  with 
bran  and  hay  or  drinking  from  the  patent  buckets. 

Eris  went  to  the  calf-pen,  where  fawn-like  heifer-calves, 
pretending  shyness  and  alarm,  soon  came  crowding  to  lick 
her  hands. 

She  looked  at  the  bull-calves ;  at  the  two  young  bulls  se- 
lected to  aspire  to  future  leadership. 

She  went  to  the  bull  pen,  where  the  herd-bull.  White 
Cloud,  gazed  curiously  upon  her,  sniffed  her  hand,  stretched 
his  massive  neck  to  be  rubbed  and  fondled,  rolling  contented 
and  sentimental  eyes. 

Her  half-brothers,  Gene  and  Willis,  came  in  wearing 
spotless  white.  Greetings  were  friendly  and  awkward ;  and 
presently  they  went  on  into  the  western  wing  to  attend  to 
the  cows  on  test  there. 

Her  father  and  Cyrus  were  already  milking.  Buddy  was 
in  the  loft;  Ed  Lister  sat  with  gnarled  fingers  clasped  and 
dim  gaze  fixed  on  the  cattle,  quiet,  solemn,  aged. 

Eris  walked  slowly  along,  reading  the  names  of  the  cows 
afiixed  to  each  stall — Mazie  of  Whitewater  Farms,  Star- 
Dust,  White  Gentian,  Guelder-Rose  of  Whitewater,  Snow- 
berry  Lass,  Moon-Queen,  Apple-bloom's  Daughter 


298  E  R I  S 

She  took  milking-stool  and  pail  and  seated  herself  by 
Guelder-Rose,  who  became  a  trifle  restive. 

"So,  lass ! — soo — lass,"  she  murmured,  stroking  the  white 
and  golden  skin.  And  in  a  few  moments  the  pail  vibrated 
with  alternate  streams  of  milk. 

"Well,  Dad,"  she  said,  "have  I  forgotten?" 

Elmer  grunted.    Then,  abruptly: 

"Guelder-Rose  is  by  Whitewater  Chieftain  outa  Snow- 
Rose,  with  a  record  of  eleven  thousan'  six  hunder'n'  ten  an' 
two-tenth  pound  uv  milk,  an'  five  hunder'n'  twenty-one, 
forty-seven  pound  uv  butter-fat  in  class  G." 

"That  is  a  fine  record,  Dad,"  said  the  girl  cordially. 

"I  guesso.  Yes.  An'  that  there  Moon-Queen;  she's  got 
a  record  uv  eleven  six  fifty- four  an'  three-tenths  and  five 
sixty-two,  thirty-four.  Herd  sire.  Chieftain;  outa  Silver 
Frost's  daughter,  Snow-Crystal  of  Whitewater " 

"Outa  Lass  o'  the  Mist,"  croaked  Ed  Lister  in  uncom- 
promising correction. 

"You're  right,  Ed,"  admitted  Elmer. 

For  a  time  there  was  no  sound  save  the  hissing  of  milk 
in  the  pails. 

Eris  carried  her  pail  to  the  steelyards,  weighed  it,  took  the 
pencil  dangling  by  its  string  and  filled  in  her  memoranda 
opposite  the  name  of  Guelder-Rose.  Then  she  transferred 
her  attentions  to  Apple-bloom's  Daughter. 

"Made  a  lotta  money,  Eris?"  inquired  Elmer  abruptly. 

"Some." 

"Waal,  I  guess  you  spent  it,  too.'* 

"No." 

"Hey?    Got  it  yet?" 

"Most  of  it,  Dad." 

"Waal,  I'll  be  jiggered.  .  .  .  What  you  aimin*  to  do  with 
it,  Eris?" 

"Save  it." 

"Any  investments?" 

"Some." 


E  R I S  299 

"What  d'ya  buy?    Wild-cats?" 

"Liberty  bonds." 

"Gosh!" 

Cyrus'  voice  from  behind  a  cow:  "You  gotta  go  to  the 
city  to  make  money." 

Elmer  said :  "You  poor,  dumb  thing,  they'd  skin  ya.  You 
ain't  got  a  gift  like  Eris.  G'wan  an'  weigh  your  milk  'n' 
shut  your  face." 

Cyrus  muttered  for  a  while.  Eris  said :  "There  seems  to 
be  too  many  people  for  the  jobs  in  New  York.  .  .  .  The 
poor  are  everywhere.  .  .  .  I've  seen  them  sleeping  in  the 
grass  in  the  public  parks." 

"Ya  hear  that,  Si  ?"  demanded  Elmer. 

Unstirring,  solemn,  dim  of  eye,  Ed  Lister  spoke:  "I  was 
to  York  in  '85.    I  seen  things  in  my  day." 

Elmer  said  to  Eris :  "Ed  he  worked  in  West  Fourteenth 
Street.    He  knows  what,  too,  same's  you." 

"I  was  a-truckin'  it  fur  Amos  T.  Brown  &  Company," 
said  the  old  man  shrilly.  "I  was  a  hefty  fella,  I  was.  I 
seen  doin's  in  my  time,  I  did.  But  they  hain't  nothin'  into 
it.    You  spend  more'n  you  git  down  to  York.    Yes,  marm." 

Cyrus  sniffed  derisively,  unconvinced.  Buddy,  having 
shaken  down  sufficient  hay,  came  in  with  a  sack  of  lime. 

"You  most  done?"  he  inquired.  "Supper's!,  ready,  I 
guess." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ANNAN'S  letters  came  to  her  every  day.  She  answered 
infrequently, — not  oftener  than  once  a  week. 

Other  letters  were  forwarded  from  Jane  Street, — ^per- 
sistent letters  from  Smull  begging  to  know  where  she  had 
gone, — abject  letters  betraying  all  the  persistence  of  a  man 
who  knows  no  pride,  no  shame  in  pursuit  where  there  ever 
had  been  an  end  to  gain. 

Eris  read  only  the  first  of  Smull's  letters.  The  others 
went,  unopened,  into  the  kitchen  range. 

Twice,  also,  her  husband  wrote  her, — evidently  aware  of 
annulment  proceedings, — vaguely  threatening  her  in  case 
she  married  Smull, — furnishing  her  with  a  mass  of  filthy 
detail  concerning  Smull's  private  life,  menacing  her  and  him, 
pleading, — sometimes  begging  for  money. 

She  read  both  letters,  sent  them  to  her  attorney,  and 
cleansed  her  mind  of  them  and  of  the  creature  who  had 
written  them. 

The  time  was  shortening;  the  days  were  drawing  near 
when  she  must  report  for  work.  .  .  .  Her  last  year  of 
work,  perhaps.  .  .  .  The  last  year,  maybe,  of  her  screen 
career. 

She  wrote  to  the  man  who  already  had  become  the  object 
paramount  of  her  life: 

"Dearest : — 

"Your  daily  letters  reassure  me.  You  do  me  a  great  kind- 
ness in  writing  them.  Long  ago,  before  I  knew  what  love 
was,  your  unvarying  kindness  won  me.  Always,  to  me,  it 
remains  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 

300 


E  R  I  S  301 

*'We  are  not  yet  in  full  autumn  here  at  Whitewater 
Farms.  Few  leaves  have  turned.  Except  for  miles  of 
golden-rod  and  purple  asters  on  fallow  and  roadside,  and 
acres  of  golden  stubble,  and  the  wine-red  acres  of  reaped 
buckwheat,  one  would  scarcely  believe  that  summer  had 
ended  in  these  Northern  hills. 

"I  went  to-day  to  Whitewater  Brook,  where  I  encountered 
the  first  person  connected  with  pictures  I  ever  had  seen.  You 
will  laugh.     It  was  poor  old  Quiss. 

"He  was  fishing.  He  didn't  possess  much  skill.  He  called 
me  'sister'  and  'girlie.* 

"I  cltmg  to  him  as  a  cat  clings  to  a  back  fence.  I  pleaded, 
I  implored  for  his  aid  and  advice. 

"Poor  old  fellow,  I  always  shall  be  grateful.  I  met  Frank 
Donnell  through  him — dearest  of  my  friends  excepting  you, 
Barry." 

"Well,  then,  I  walked  along  the  brook  and  sentimentalised 
in  the  dappled  sunlight  of  the  yellowing  woods.  The  blue- 
jays  were  like  winged  sapphires  everywhere ;  squirrels  made 
a  most  prodigious  noise  among  dry  leaves.  In  a  hemlock  I 
saw  a  large  owl  sitting. 

"I  took  home  a  huge  sheaf  of  asters.  Even  in  my  arms 
butterflies  hovered  about  the  gold  and  blue  blossoms. 

"I  shall  leave  here  soon.  My  stepmother  and  my  half- 
brothers  are  kind  to  me.    My  father,  too,  in  his  own  way. 

"But  I  shall  not  come  to  Whitewater  Farms  again. 

"In  spite  of  kindness,  I  am  not  wanted.  Finally,  I  have 
come  to  understand  that. 

"I  am  not  really  welcome;  I  am  pleasantly  endured.  My 
people  have  nothing  in  common  with  me.  It  always  has  been 
so.  I  seem  to  have  been  born  an  outsider.  I  still  am.  They 
can't  help  it ;  nor  can  I.  There  seems  to  be  no  bond,  no  tie, 
no  natural  obligation  of  blood,  none  of  custom,  to  hold  me 
here.  ...  It  is  a  lonely  feeling.  But  it  has  been  mine  from 
earliest  recollection. 


S02  E  R I  S 

"Often  I  used  to  wonder  why  I  had  no  intimate  affection 
for  this  house,  for  the  place — trees,  hills,  woods. 

"I  love  them — but  as  one  who  passes  that  way  often,  and 
becomes  fond  of  a  neighbour's  house  and  trees. 

"Never  have  they,  in  any  intimate  sense,  been  mine,  or 
part  of  me,  .  .  .  Not  even  my  old  dresses,  my  few  books, 
my  fewer  child's  toys,  have  I  ever  truly  considered  mine — 
lacking,  perhaps,  the  love  that  should  have  been  the  gift, — 
the  spirit,  Barry — which  left  me  only  with  the  substance — 
a  lonely,  lonely  child. 

"Gradually  I  have  come  to  realise  that,  before  I  came 
back,  harmony  reigned  at  Whitewater  Farms.  Now,  there 
is  the  slightest  note  of  discord.  I  am  conscious  of  it.  I 
know  the  others  are.  I  understand,  now,  it  was  inevitable. 
...  I  am  Eris,  daughter  of  Discord.  .  .  .  But  for  ^ou, 
Eris  and  Eros  are  merged  and  one.  I  strike  out  the  i !  .  .  . 
Forever,  Barry.  I  and  i  melt  into  U  and  you!  My  eyes, 
too.    Darling!    Did  you  ever  suspect  such  silly  wit  in  me? 

"Your  attorney  writes  to  me  occasionally.  He  assures 
me  he  is  speeding  the  annulment.  To  me,  that  brief  phase 
was  vaguer  than  a  dream  of  which  one  remembers  only  an 
indefinable  discomfort. 

"When  it  is  brushed  away  forever  I  shall  marry  you.  If 
children  come  I  can't  go  on  acting — or  only  between  times. 
Not  even  then,  because  I  shan't  leave  them  or  you ; — or  you, 
Barry — chiefly  you.  ...  I  shall  be  a  good  wife  and  a  good 
mother.  .  .  .  And  you  shall  provide  our  fame. 

"And  I  shall  turn  lazy,  and  repose  in  the  shadow  of  your 
greatness. 

"When  our  time  has  come  I  should  like  a  small  house  in 
the  country.  Would  you?  A  garden?  Hills — ^breezy  in 
spring — and  a  little  brook  in  the  woods — and  a  cow  or  two — 
for  the  children's  sake.     Do  you  mind,  darling? 

"When  I  was  a  young  girl  I  was  inclined  toward  versa 
Here  is  one  effusion : 


E  R  I  S  303 

'This  is  my  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come: — 
Long  grass  a-tremble  by  a  little  brook, 
A  hillside  where  brown  bees  contented  hum, 
And  I  alone  there  with  God's  Wonder-book 
Wherein  I  read  and  ponder,  read  and  pray. 
Learning  a  truer  Truth  from  day  to  day.' 

"Be  merciful  to  a  school-girl's  rhymes.  I've  still  a  bodk 
full  to  show  you,  dear, 

"And  now,  back  to  earth:  I  begin  work  in  a  little  while, 
as  you  know.  .  .  .  And  I  am  very  fain  to  have  you  take 
me  in  your  arms,  Barry.  And  so  shall  soon  come  to  you, 
being  inclined  that  way — yours — yours  no  less  truly  now 
than  when  the  law  permits — always  your  property — your 
refuge,  God  willing — your  roof,  your  shelter,  your  retreat, 
to  hold  by  right,  to  enjoy  in  peace — the  girl  you  found 
shabby  and  asleep,  and  have  awakened,  clothed  in  light. 

"Gratitude  undying;  loyalty  to  you;  love. 

"Eris." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THAT  mental  jumping-off  place,  popularly  known  as 
"the  psychological  moment,"  is  usually  hatched  out 
of  the  dust-pan  of  Destiny.  Materialistic  sweepings.  And, 
sometimes  spontaneous  combustion  follows. 

Old  Lady  Destiny,  house-cleaning,  swept  together,  from 
various  directions,  elements  which,  uncombined,  would  not 
have  set  the  dust-bin  afire. 

Apropos  of  Annan  and  his  stories,  Coltfoot  had  made  this 
objection,  saying  that  the  literary  explosion  never  seemed 
to  be  spontaneous,  and  charging  the  author  with  secreting 
in  the  heap  a  firecracker  of  commercial  manufacture. 

Coltfoot,  in  the  absence  of  Eris,  began  to  frequent  Annan. 
A  rudderless  ship,  a  homeless  pup,  a  gasless  flivver — these 
similes  haunted  him  whenever  he  beheld  the  quenched  fea- 
tures of  Barry  Annan. 

Annan  had  been  candid  with  him.  It  was  love,  he  ad- 
mitted, that  knocked  every  other  ambition  out  of  him. 

And,  at  first,  Coltfoot  thought  so,  although  in  his  case 
with  Rosalind,  love  was  proving  a  stimulus  to  effort  amaz- 
ing, resembling  inspiration. 

But  gradually  a  disturbing  explanation  for  Annan's  idle- 
ness forced  itself  upon  Coltfoot.  The  boy's  motive  power 
seemed  to  be  suspended. 

Except  for  the  personal  pleasure  Annan  had  taken  in  his 
mental  acrobatics,  there  never  had  been  anything  inspired 
in  his  work  until  he  began  his  latest  novel — still  merely 
blocked  in. 

But  this  story  had  in  it,  carefully  and  skilfully  laid,  a 
deep-bedded  foundation  of  truth.     And  work  on  it  began 

304 


E  R I  S  305 

from  the  day  that  Eris  had  promised  to  become  his 
wife. 

Through  all  the  upsetting  excitement  of  the  boy's  court- 
ship, the  inception  of  the  story  had  produced  nothing  ma- 
terial. 

In  the  glow  of  glorious  certainty  it  had  flowered  under 
the  girl's  tender  ministry. 

In  her  absence,  now,  all  growth  ceased. 

It  was  a  disturbing  explanation  that  seemed  to  force  itself 
upon  Coltfoot, — that,  in  Annan,  there  was  nothing  creative 
except  through  the  vitality  of  this  girl.  Or  that  the  living 
germ  was  in  her;  and  that  Annan  was  merely  the  medium 
for  transplantation — adequate  soil  skilfully  mixed  for  cul- 
ture of  seeds  developed  in  the  entity  of  Eris. 

He  said  one  day  to  Annan:  "How  far  in  any  creative 
work  Eris  would  go  if  she  had  the  chance,  I  couldn't 
prophesy.  ...  I  saw  some  of  the  continuity  of  that  last 
Smull  picture  she  made " 

Annan  looked  up  sharply. 

" — It  is  a  noble  piece  of  creative  acting,"  said  Coltfoot 
in  a  deliberate  voice. 

After  a  silence  Annan  said:  "She  shall  have  every  chance 
in  the  world." 

"The  trouble  is,  with  such  a  girl,  that  she  is  likely  to  lend 
herself  to  her  husband's  career.  .  .  .  And  ignore  her  own. 
.  .  .  There  is  in  her  a  breadth  of  generosity  I  have  seen 
very  seldom,  Barry, — perhaps  never  before.  .  .  .  And  she 
is  very  much  in  love." 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  accept  any  such  sacrifice,  Mike?" 
demanded  Annan  impatiently. 

"You  may  have  no  option.  She  is  a  curious  girl.  Enor- 
mously capable.  Perfectly  normal.  Intensely  human.  .  .  . 
She  is  the  balanced  type  which  civilisation  is  supposed  to 
breed.  And  seldom  does.  That  is  why  the  ordinary  be- 
comes extraordinary;  why  symmetry  is  such  a  rarity.  .  .  . 


306  E  R I  S 

We're  a  twisted  lot,  Barry.  We  never  notice  it  until  we  see 
somebody  who  not  only  was  born  straight,  but  who  has  con- 
tinued to  grow  that  way." 

The  elements  of  ignition  began  to  collect  in  Destiny's 
dust-pan  toward  the  end  of  the  month. 

Camille  Armand,  Gowns,  57th  Street,  sent  Betsy  Blythe 
an  estimate  for  her  personal  adornment  in  the  proposed  pro- 
duction of  a  super-picture  to  be  called  The  Devil's  Own. 

Betsy  sent  the  outrageous  estimate  to  Frank  Donnell. 

Donnell  sent  it  to  Albert  Smull. 

His  partner,  Leopold  Shill,  got  hold  of  it  and  objected 
with  both  hands. 

Smull  telephoned  to  Donnell  that  he'd  drop  in  and  discuss 
cuts  in  the  morning. 

A  minor  accident  detained  Donnell's  suburban  train. 

Smull  arrived  at  Donnell's  office  and  sat  down  at  Don- 
nell's desk  to  wait. 

Donnell's  secretary  opened  the  director's  morning  mail 
and  laid  it  on  his  desk  under  the  ruddy  nose  of  Albert  Smull. 
On  top  was  a  telegram  to  Donnell  from  Eris,  dated  from 
Whitewater,  N.  Y.    Smull  read  it: 

"Arrive  Saturday  evening,  Jane  Street.  Would  love  to 
see  you  before  I  begin  work.  Do  call  me  up  after  Monday. 
Best  wishes  always. 

"Eris." 

Smull  was  standing  by  one  of  the  windows  looking  out  on 
Broadway  when  Donnell  arrived. 

They  discussed  the  estimate  Betsy  had  submitted,  came 
to  an  economic  conclusion,  parted. 

Smull  went  down  town.  But  he  could  not  keep  his  mind 
on  business.  He  had  a  row  with  Shill,  was  brutal  to  a 
stenographer,  made  enemies  of  one  or  two  customers,  bullied 
his  personal  office  force,  and  finally  put  on  his  hat  and  light 
overcoat  and  departed,  leaving  everything  in  a  mess. 


ERIS  307 

At  the  Patroon's  Qub  that  afternoon  he  saw  Annan  pass- 
ing, and  saluted  him ;  and  was  ignored. 

This  didn't  suit  him.  He  turned  back,  and,  coming  up 
alongside  of  Annan : 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked;  "anything  wrong, 
Annan  ?" 

"Yes,  you  are,"  said  the  boy. 

Smull  was  still  smiling  his  near-eyed  smile,  but  his  san- 
guine features  reddened  more  heavily. 

They  had  walked  as  far  as  the  Strangers'  Room.  There 
was  nobody  there,  not  even  a  servant. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  demanded  Smull.  "I  don't  get 
you,  Annan " 

"You  don't  get  anybody.  That's  why  your  activities  are 
ridiculous  and  you  obnoxious." 

Smull's  grin  became  mechanical :  "Are  you  trying  to 
quarrel  with  me  over  a  skirt  who  has  made  monkeys  out  of 
both  of  us " 

Annan  hit  him  hard.  He  lost  his  balance,  stumbled  back- 
ward and  landed  on  a  leather  sofa,  seated.  His  left  eye  was 
already  puffing  up.    He  seemed  too  astonished  to  stir. 

Annan  went  over  to  the  door,  locked  it,  leaving  the  key 
there.  Then  he  came  back  and  waited  for  Smull  to  get  up, 
which  he  did  after  a  moment,  and  began  to  remove  his  coat 
and  waistcoat. 

"We'll  both  be  expelled,"  he  said  coolly,  "but  it's  worth 
it  to  me " 

A  heavy  automatic  pistol  fell  from  an  inside  coat  pocket 
to  the  carpet. 

"That's  what  I  ought  to  use  on  you,"  he  remarked;  but 
he  picked  it  up  and  dropped  it  into  the  side  pocket  of  his 
coat. 

Then  he  turned  and  was  on  Annan  like  a  panther.  Both 
fell,  smashing  a  chair ;  both  were  on  their  feet  the  next  sec- 
ond. But  Smull's  bolt  was  sped.  His  face  was  congested ; 
he  was  panting  already.    He  had  lived  too  well. 


308  E  R I  S 

Annan  walked  toward  him,  perfectly  aware  that  he  could 
hit  him  when  and  where  he  chose. 

But  after  he  had  selected  the  spot  he  couldn't  do  it.  In 
fact,  there  was  nothing  further  to  do  or  say. 

He  looked  into  the  crimson,  disfigured  visage,  at  the  two 
red  and  swollen  fists  awaiting  attack. 

Then,  dropping  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  he  turned  on 
his  heel,  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  let  himself  out,  closed 
the  door  quietly  behind  him. 

Smull  emerged  a  little  later,  stepped  into  the  elevator,  and 
went  up  to  the  club  barber. 

"Charlie,"  he  said,  "I  got  bunged  playing  squash.  Kindly 
apply  the  sinking  fund  process  to  my  left  eye." 

After  an  hour's  treatment :  "I  guess  that's  the  best  I  can 
do,  Mr.  Smull,"  concluded  the  barber. 

Smull  inspected  himself  in  the  glass:  "Hell,"  he  said, 
" — and  I've  got  a  date." 

However,  he  dined  early  at  the  club.  He  maintained 
sleeping  quarters  there.  Dinner  was  served  in  his  room. 
He  had  a  quart  of  Burgundy  to  wash  down  the  entree,  and 
one  or  two  more  serious  highballs  for  the  remainder  of  the 
repast.  He  was  a  fastidious  feeder,  but  always  a  large  one. 
It  was  that,  principally,  which  played  the  devil  with  him. 
A  skin  saturated  with  alcohol  completed  the  muscular 
atrophy  of  what  had  been  a  magnificent,  natural  strength  in 
college. 

But  that  was  long  ago:  his  sensations  had  been  his  gods 
too  long.  They  had  done  for  him — worse  still,  they  had 
nearly  done  with  him.  What  remained,  principally,  was  a 
shameless  persistence.  Only  the  man  himself  knew  the 
tragedy  of  it.    But  such  men  are  doomed  to  go  on. 

That  is  their  hell. 

From  the  club  Smull  called  up  his  limousine. 

When  the  doorman  announced  it,  Smull  threw  aside  the 


E  R I  S  309 

evening  paper,  took  a  look  at  his  damaged  eye  in  a  mirror, 
put  on  hat  and  overcoat,  and  went  out  to  where  his  car  stood. 

"You  know  where,"  he  said  to  his  chauffeur,  " — and  stop 
somewhere  for  the  evening  papers." 

A  newsboy  on  42d  Street  supplied  the  papers.  Smull 
continued  to  read  all  the  way  to  Jane  Street.  But  when  his 
car  drew  up  along  the  east  curb  of  Greenwich  Avenue,  he 
laid  aside  the  papers  and  settled  back  to  watch. 

Through  the  early  October  dusk,  illuminated  shop  win- 
dows and  street  arc-lights  shed  gonflicting  rays  and  shadows 
over  passers-by. 

SmuU's  vision,  too,  was  impaired,  and  he  squinted  intently 
at  every  taxi,  watching  for  one  that  would  turn  into  Jane 
Street. 

He  could  see  the  front  of  the  house  where  Eris  lived.  He 
could  see,  also,  that  her  windows  were  unlighted.  It  was 
evident  that  she  had  not  yet  arrived. 

He  hadn't  the  least  idea  what  time  she  would  appear.  She 
had  said  nothing  about  that  in  her  telegram  to  Frank  Don- 
nell.  Her  telegram  said  "Saturday  evening,"  nothing  more 
precise.     There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  except  to  wait. 

And  now  the  Old  Lady,  scraping  away  vigorously  at  the 
four  points  of  the  compass,  dislodged  a  bit  of  rubbish  and 
swept  it  into  her  dust-pan  with  all  the  rest. 

The  fragment  in  question  came  drifting  through  Green- 
wich Avenue  in  the  October  night,  half  revealed  in  the  glow 
of  some  humble  shop  window,  lost  in  the  shadow  beyond, 
dimly  visible  along  the  dark  fringe  of  an  arc-light,  fading  to 
a  shade  again, — a  spectre  now,  and  now  a  ghost-white  face 
adrift  in  the  night. 

At  the  corner  of  Jane  Street  the  shape  stood  revealed, — 
a  shabby  man,  deathly  pale,  who  stood  as  though  he  had 
nowhere  else  to  go — stood  with  lowered  head  as  though  pre- 
occupied, picking  nervously  at  the  raw  skin  around  his 
finger-nails. 


310  ERIS 

Chance  and  the  Dust  Pan  dumped  him  there, — the  chance 
that  his  wife  had  returned  to  Jane  Street.  He  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  her  coming;  did  not  know  where  she  had  been  or 
when  she  would  return.  All  he  knew  was  that  there  never 
were  any  lights  in  her  windows  any  more.  He  had  written 
to  her,  but  she  had  not  replied.    And  he  needed  money. 

SmuU's  chauffeur,  reposing  resignedly  at  the  wheel, 
straightened  up  abruptly,  then  left  his  seat  and  came  around 
to  the  open  window  of  the  car. 

"That  bum  is  over  there  on  the  corner  again,  Mr.  SmuU," 
he  said. 

"Where?" 

"He's  in  the  shadow  of  that  doorway — just  south  of  the 
corner,  sir." 

"All  right,"  nodded  SmuU. 

He  could  now  just  distinguish  a  shape  there.  For  some 
time  he  watched  it,  speculating  on  the  affair  and  still  puzzled. 
For  how  the  girl  who  had  so  contemptuously  repulsed  him 
could  ever  have  married  the  derelict  across  the  street,  Smull 
was  unable  to  conjecture. 

More  perplexing  to  him  still  were  her  relations  with 
Annan.  He  did  not  wish  to  believe  they  were  meretricious. 
In  the  muddy  depths  of  him  he  didn't  believe  that.  But  he 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  accuse  her. 

Anyway,  it  didn't  matter.  Annan  didn't  matter,  nor  did 
the  bum  across  the  way ;  nor  did  the  girl's  intrigues,  chaste 
or  otherwise,  matter  to  this  man. 

He  was  after  his  quarry.  Perhaps  in  the  muddy  depths 
of  him  he  knew  the  chase  was  hopeless.  Perhaps  he  was 
doomed  to  hunt  anyway — never  to  rest,  never  to  quit  the 
trail  over  which  he  had  sped  so  eagerly,  so  long  ago,  after 
his  first  quarry. 

He  had  smoked  four  large  cigars  and  was  lighting  a  fifth. 
It  was  ten  o'clock.    No  taxi  had  turned  into  Jane  Street. 


E  R  I  S  Sll 

The  windows  of  the  house  he  watched  remained  unlighted. 
And,  across  the  street,  the  shadowy  shape  had  not  stirred. 
Undoubtedly  the  fellow  had  recognised  Smull's  car.  Which 
concerned  SmuU  not  a  whit. 

However,  he  was  growing  restless.  He  had  over-smoked, 
too. 

Now  he  flung  away  the  cigar  just  lighted,  opened  the 
limousine  door  and  got  out. 

To  his  chauffeur  he  said :  "That's  all.  Call  up  at  eight- 
thirty  to-morrow  morning." 

"That  bum  is  still  over  there,  sir " 

"All  right,  Harvey.  Go  back  to  the  garage.  .  .  .  And 
I'll  want  the  coupe  to-morrow." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

SmuU  watched  the  car  glide  away  down  Greenwich  Ave- 
nue, turn  east,  disappear. 

Then  he  walked  across  to  Jane  Street  and  as  far  as  the 
house  he  was  watching,  and  gazed  up  at  her  darkened  win- 
dows. 

For  half  an  hour  or  so  he  sauntered  back  and  forth  be- 
tween her  'house  and  the  corner.  The  night  had  grown 
warmer  and  he  loosened  his  light  grey  overcoat  and  threw 
it  back. 

Now  and  then  he  noticed  that  the  shadowy  shape  of 
Carter  had  not  stirred.  That  did  not  concern  him  for  a 
while. 

But,  as  the  hour  wore  on,  irritation  increased  and  his 
nerves  became  more  susceptible  to  annoyance. 

And  once,  although  his  contempt  for  Carter  remained 
supreme,  he  ran  his  right  hand  over  the  coat  pocket  where 
the  pistol  sagged, — a  movement  involuntary  and  quite  un- 
conscious. 

A  little  before  eleven  a  taxicab  suddenly  turned  out  of 
Greenwich  Avenue  and  halted  before  the  house  in  which 
Eris  dwelt. 

Smull  was  prowling  some  distance  to  the  westward  on 


312  E  R I  S 

the  opposite  side  of  the  street;  and  the  sudden  appearance 
of  the  cab  caught  him  unprepared. 

He  started  back  instantly;  but  even  before  he  arrived  op- 
posite the  house  she  had  entered  it,  carrying  her  suitcase. 

Her  taxicab,  however,  remained  waiting. 

Smull  gazed  up  at  her  windows.  Suddenly  a  light  broke 
out  behind  the  lowered  shades. 

He  looked  across  at  the  waiting  taxi.  He  was  going  to 
have  another  chance. 

When  the  light  went  out  behind  the  yellow  shades  it 
would  be  time  enough  to  cross  the  street.  He  thought  so. 
Meanwhile,  he  would  wait.  He'd  take  his  time.  What's 
time  to  a  gentleman? 

Eris  had  lighted  the  apartment,  had  taken  one  swiftly 
comprehensive  glance  at  the  dusty  solitude  about  her,  then 
she  hurried  to  the  telephone  and  gave  Annan's  number.  And 
heard  his  voice,  presently: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Darling!" 

"Eris!  Why  on  earth  did  you  wire  me  and  neglect  to 
tell  me  what  train  to  meet?" 

"Because  I  didn't  know,  dearest.  Sometimes  the  Central 
waits  for  the  local  and  sometimes  it  doesn't.  I  didn't  want 
you  to  spend  the  evening  hanging  around  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral  " 

"You  blessed  child,  I've  done  it.  I've  met  every  train. 
They  told  me  there  were  no  more  from  Whitewater.  So  I 
came  home." 

"Darling!  I'm  fearfully  sorry.  They  were  quite  right, 
too.  The  Central  did  not  wait  for  the  local,  so  I  took  a 
taxi  at  the  station  and  drove  thirty  miles  to  catch  an  ex-, 
press " 

"Where  on  earth  are  you?" 

"Home " 

"I'm  coming " 


ERIS  31S 

"No!  It's  dusty  and  messy  and  horrid.  May  I  come  to 
Governor's  place?     I  have  a  taxi — and  I'm  starved " 

"Jump  into  that  taxi  instantly!  I'll  find  Xantippe  and 
have  something  for  you  in  a  few  minutes.  Will  you  come 
at  once?" 

"I'm  on  the  way,  Barry." 

She  was  on  the  way.    But  it  was  the  feminine  way. 

First  of  all  she  had  a  toilet  to  make,  a  complete  change  of 
clothing  to  effect.  No  girl  ever  lived  who  would  deny  her- 
self that  much  before  she  braved  her  lover. 

She  went  to  the  windows  to  reassure  herself  that  the 
shades  were  properly  lowered.  Her  taxi  was  both  visible 
and  audible  below.  She  noticed  nothing  else  in  the  street 
except  that  it  was  beginning  to  rain. 

Probably  she  could  not  have  recognised  Smull,  even 
if  she  had  caught  sight  of  him  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way. 

There  is  an  old  brick  building  there,  untenanted,  its  shabby 
fagade  running  westward  toward  the  North  River. 

Against  it  Smull  stood  in  darkness. 

But  already  another  person  had  discovered  Smull;  had 
recognised  him ;  and  now  was  shuffling  slowly  along  toward 
him. 

The  last  bit  of  rubbish  in  the  Dust  Pan. 

Smull,  intent  on  the  lighted  windows  above,  did  not  notice 
The  Rubbish  until  it  had  drifted  close  to  his  elbow.  Then 
he  turned.  It  did  not  suit  Smull  to  have  any  altercation  then 
or  there. 

He  said  in  a  guarded  voice :  "Get  out  of  here,  you  son  of 
a  slut!" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Carter,  hoarsely.  "I've  got 
to  have  some  money " 

Smull,  infinitely  annoyed,  turned  his  back  and  walked 
westward,  turning  up  the  collar  of  his  light  overcoat  as  the 
drizzle  thickened  from  the  River. 

He  walked  a  few  paces,  stood  looking  back  over  his  left 


314  ERIS 

shoulder  at  the  windows  where  light  shone  behind  the  yellow 
shades. 

Presently  he  was  aware  of  Carter  close  behind  him.  His 
instinct  was  to  kick  him  aside ;  but  it  was  too  near  the  house 
he  was  watching  and  he  wanted  no  outcry  or  scuffle. 

"What  do  you  want,  you  dirty  bum?"  he  demanded, 
fumbling  in  his  pocket,  " — a  dollar  for  a  shell  of  coke?" 

"I  want  you  to  keep  away  from  my  wife,"  said  Carter  in 
a  ghost  of  a  voice. 

Smull  turned  on  him  savagely.  Neither  stirred.  But  it 
was  too  close  to  her  house :  and  Smull,  deciding  to  end  the 
matter  quickly,  turned  once  more  and  walked  toward  the 
North  River. 

When  he  concluded  that  he  was  far  enough  away  in  the 
obscurity  he  halted,  listening  for  the  shuffle  of  feet. 

But  Carter  came  very  silently ;  he  was  at  his  elbow  again 
before  he  heard  him.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  stealthy 
movements  of  the  man  seemed  to  convey  a  menace  to  Smull. 

As  he  confronted  Carter  he  began  to  unbutton  his  over- 
coat, deliberately  at  first,  then  more  swiftly  as  he  saw  the 
expression  in  his  enemy's  eyes. 

White  as  a  corpse.  Carter  said  something  to  him  he  did 
not  understand  as  his  hand  closed  on  the  pistol  sagging  in 
his  coat  pocket. 

Then  he  saw  a  pistol  in  Carter's  hand ;  felt  a  terrific  blow 
in  the  stomach  that  knocked  him  against  the  brick  wall  be- 
hind him. 

As  he  slid  down  to  a  sitting  posture,  all  darkness  seemed 
crashing  down  around  him.  And  through  the  rushing  chaos 
he  freed  his  pistol  and  fired  at  a  grey  blur  above  him, — fired 
again  as  sight  failed  in  his  dying  eyes, — ^lay  very  still  there 
in  the  rain.  .  .  . 

Eris,  aglow  from  her  shower  bath,  began  to  realise  it  was 
time  to  hurry. 

In  her  clothes  press  she  rummaged  feverishly,  selecting  the 


E  R  I  S  315 

freshest  of  last  season's  dinner  gowns, — an  orchid-mauve 
affair  with  touches  of  violet  and  silver, — ^very  charmingly 
calculated  to  enhance  her  chestnut  hair  and  slender,  milk- 
white  beauty. 

Now  she  really  must  hurry — for  the  mantel  clock  had 
run  down  weeks  ago  and  her  wrist-watch  was  broken,  and 
she  had  that  deliciously  guilty  feeling  which  is  entirely  and 
constitutionally  feminine — the  sensation  of  being  awaited 
by  love  impatient  and  probably  adorably  out  of  temper. 

To  see  whether  it  still  was  raining  she  ran  to  the  window. 
The  street  seemed  to  be  full  of  movement  and  noise — shrill 
voices,  people  running,  a  throng  in  the  rain  surging,  ebbing, 
scattering  as  an  ambulance  clanged  into  the  street  from 
Greenwich  Avenue. 

A  second's  hesitation,  then  she  lowered  the  shade,  ran  to 
her  closet  for  a  cloak  and  umbrella,  opened  the  outer  door, 
switched  off  every  light,  and  hurried  downstairs. 

On  the  steps  she  opened  her  umbrella  and  made  her  way 
through  the  increasing  crowd  toward  the  taxicab. 

She  had  no  morbid  curiosity  concerning  such  painful 
scenes,  when  curiosity  alone  could  afford  no  aid.  She  heard 
a  ragged  boy  say  something  about  "a  coupla  guys  dead  acrost 
the  street" — and  shuddered  as  she  stepped  into  the  taxicab. 

The  driver  turned  around  and  opened  the  front  window : 

"When  I  heard  that  first  shot,"  he  said  excitedly,  'T  tuk 
it  f'r  a  blow-out.  Yes,  ma'am.  Then  come  two  more  shots 
an'  I  gets  wise  an'  ducks.  I  hear  them  two  fellas  are  dead. 
Some  gun-play.    I'll  say  so.  .  .  .  Where  to,  lady?" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ONLY  in  books  does  the  story  of  an  individual  begin  and 
end. 

But  birth  cannot  begin  that  story;  nor  can  death  end  it. 

Sequel  and  sequence,  continued  and  continuous,  serial  in- 
terminable. 

At  the  autopsy  enough  coal-tar  was  discovered  in  the 
viscera  of  Mr.  Carter  to  account  for  the  large  orifice  he  blew 
in  the  abdomen  of  Mr.  SmuU. 

The  motive,  too,  seemed  to  be  clear  enough.  Smull  had 
been  instrumental  in  sending  Carter  to  prison,  where  he  had 
become  an  addict. 

Also,  Mr.  Shill  exhibited  letters  in  which  Mr.  Carter 
promised  to  "get"  Mr.  Smull  unless  a  satisfactory  financial 
arrangement  were  made  for  his  personal  maintenance. 

The  name  of  Eris  did  not  appear  in  the  newspapers. 

There  were  black-edged  cards  tacked  to  the  bulletin  boards 
of  several  fashionable  clubs,  announcing  the  decease  of  Al- 
bert Wesly  Smull.     Nothing  like  that  for  Eddie  Carter. 

Saint  Berold's  Chapel  indorsed  Smull.  The  music  was 
especially  fine.  The  Crook's  Quickstep  for  Carter;  Broad- 
way's  roar  his  requiem. 

However,  what  was  left  of  Eddie,  coal-tar  and  all,  went 
to  Evergreen  Valley  Cemetery  in  an  automobile  hearse, 
chased  by  one  trailer. 

A  young  girl  got  out  of  the  trailer  after  the  coffin  was 
lowered,  the  grave  filled,  and  the  mound  deftly  shaped.  She 
laid  a  bunch  of  wild  blue  asters  and  golden-rod  on  the 
mound. 

Then,  after  she  had  stood  motionless  for  a  minute,  she 

316 


E  R I  S  317 

got  into  the  trailer  again,  where  a  young  man  awaited  her. 

Until  their  automobile  was  outside  the  cemetery  neither 
of  them  spoke. 

Then :  "I've  been  wondering,"  said  Annan,  "what  is  your 
religion,  Eris, — what  particular  denomination." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  am  quite  happy  in  any  church.  Or, 
in  synagogue  or  mosque,  I  should  feel  no  barrier  between 
my  mind  and  God's.  .  .  .  Would  you?" 

He  could  not  say. 

Annulment  proceedings,  not  yet  begun,  never,  of  course, 
were. 

The  status  of  Eris,  its  solution  and  dissolution,  had  been 
effected  by  another  solution.  Coal-tar.  Chemistry  had  sun- 
dered the  tie  which,  we  are  instructed,  God  alone  manufac- 
tures. 

When  they  arrived  at  No.  3  Governor's  Place,  Eris  went 
into  the  guest  room,  where,  centuries  ago,  she  had  lain  abed 
under  the  roof  of  a  man  whose  name  even  she  did  not  know. 

"I  want  to  lie  down  before  dinner,  Barry.    May  I?" 

"Yes.    Can  Mrs.  Sniffen  do  anything  for  you?" 

But  the  girl  said  no,  and  turned  down  the  lace  spread.  So 
Annan  lowered  the  shades  and  went  out  to  his  study. 

At  dinner  Eris  appeared  very  much  herself,  smiling,  gaily 
inquisitive  concerning  Annan's  conduct  during  her  recent 
absence,  tenderly  diverted  to  hear  how  intolerable  he  had 
found  those  few  weeks  without  her.  He  became  emphatic 
in  recollection  of  his  solitary  misery. 

"Darling,  we  should  not  feel  that  way,  ever,"  she  insisted. 

"Absence  should  be  a  stimulus  to  carry  on.    Otherwise " 

she  shrugged,  stopped.     But  he  knew  she  had  meant  death. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "but  I  want  to  tell  you  that  in  that 
event,  I  follow.    And  that's  that!" 

He  even  borrowed  her  phrase  to  fix,  irrevocably,  their 
mutual  positions.    But  without  that  the  girl  already  knew, — 


318  ERIS 

deep,  deep  within  her  she  had  long  known, — where  the  spring 
of  their  vital  strength  had  its  occult  source.  And  more  ab- 
solutely, more  perfectly  the  knowledge  made  this  man  hers. 

Truly  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  world  for  her;  no 
other  rival  she  ever  could  brook  that  claimed  the  mind  and 
strength  that  she  was  giving  to  this  man — and  must  always 
give  as  long  as  mind  and  strength  endured. 

There  still  remained  for  the  career  of  Eris  an  autumn,  a 
winter,  and  a  spring  in  California. 

Work  was  to  begin  very  soon.  This  knowledge  sobered 
their  leave-taking  that  night. 

It  tinged  all  t.ieir  meetings  and  leave-takings,  a  little,  dur- 
ing that  otherwise  perfect  week  in  town. 

She  wore  his  betrothal  ring  when  she  went  away. 

Annan  stood  the  separation  for  a  month,  then  went  after 
her. 

During  the  winter  Annan  went  three  times  to  the  Coast. 
Both,  however,  thought  it  best  that  he  should  not  remain. 

Eris  made  three  pictures.  Two  were  the  species  known 
as  feature  pictures ;  the  third  a  super-picture. 

She  was  paid  for  her  work  five  hundred  dollars  a  week. 
She  was  offered  twice  as  much  to  sign  for  another  year. 
Then  twice  as  much  again. 

To  Annan  she  wrote : 

*T  had  to  tell  them  that  circumstances  beyond  my  control 
might  interfere.  I  meant  children,  darling,  but  did  not  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  be  more  definite." 

As  for  Annan,  excepting  his  brief  journeys  to  the  Coast, 
he  passed  a  miserable,  apathetic,  unreal  winter. 

To  Coltfoot  it  was  painfully  plain  w^here  was  the  true  and 
only  source  of  the  boy's  inspiration. 

Everything  else  now  appeared  to  be  only  a  sort  of  native 
ability  polished  with  usage  to  cleverness  where  technical 


E  R I S  819 

fluency  and  journalistic  nimbleness  in  narrative  did  brilliant 
duty  for  the  real  thing. 

For  a  few  days,  after  being  with  Eris,  enough  of  her  in 
him  lasted  so  that  he  could  get  on  with  his  novel.  Then  he 
needed  her  again.  But  he  realised  his  necessity  only  when 
he  had  gone  on  for  a  while  without  her. 

Dark  days  came  for  the  boy ;  incredulity,  alarm,  chagrin, 
the  struggle  renewed,  doubt,  helplessness,  and  the  subcon- 
scious cry  for  her,  never  written  nor  voiced,  yet,  somehow 
heard  by  her  at  the  edge  of  the  other  ocean. 

Always  the  occult  appeal  was  answered;  always  she  re- 
sponded in  a  passion  of  tenderness  and  abnegaticm — her 
promise  that  the  days  of  separation  were  dra-wing  to  their 
end,  that  soon  she  would  come  to  him  forever. 

She  came  when  May  was  ending. 

He  thought  she  seemed  a  trifle  taller ; — ^had  never  dreamed 
she  was  as  lovely  a  thing ; — yet  should  have  been  prepared — 
for  always  she  had  been  a  series  of  enchanting  revelations. 

It  transpired  that  she  still  had  a  few  days  left  of  her 
career — spots  to  fill  in  with  "Eastern  stuff,"  where  the  con- 
tinuity called  for  it — a  location  here,  a  set  or  two  to  be 
knocked  together,  nothing  exacting. 

Then  the  professional  career  of  Eris  was  to  be  "irised 
out." 

^  "Never!"  repeated  Annan,  holding  her  so  that  he  could 
see  deeply  in  her  grey  eyes.  And  saw  a  tiny  image  there, 
reflected — the  miniature  of  himself. 

"Well,"  she  murmured,  "that  event  is  with  God,  darling. 
But  I  don't  think  there's  much  doubt,  because  I  love  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  And  anyway " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  lover,  smiled,  recognising  her 
destiny. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  in  his  study,  he  sat  at  his  desk 
with  the  typed  manuscript  over  which  he  had  agonised  all 
winter. 


S20  ERIS 

Eris,  perched  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  read  it  over  his 
shoulder,  page  after  page. 

"It  seems  to  be  getting  on,  darling,"  she  ventured. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  talk  it  over  with  you.  I  want  it  to  be 
the  real  thing." 

"You'll  make  it  so." 

He  looked  up  at  her.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  sort  of 
tragic  curiosity.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  for  an 
instant. 

Suddenly  he  smiled,  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  her  be- 
trothal ring. 

"  'Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme,* "  he  mur- 
mured.   "And  these  things  are  in  you" 

She  bent  her  head  close  to  his :  "What  do  you  mean  by 
'things  unattempted'  f* 

"Milton's  line,  Eris,  not  mine.  .  .  .  'Things  unat- 
tempted.' ...  And  latent  in  you.  .  .  .  Not  within  me. 
.  .  .  unless  you  give  them," 

Her  grey  eyes  said:  "If  they  truly  are  in  me  you  have 
only  to  take."  Her  lips  tenderly  denied  such  possession, 
attributing  all  origin  to  him. 

The  boy  said:  "God  knows  where  it  comes  from;  but  it 
is  in  me  only  when  you  are  near." 

She  rested  her  cool  cheek  against  his.  Her  career  was 
paid  for. 

V  "One  thing,"  he  said  with  an  embarrassed  grin,  "is  likely 
to  annoy  you.  But  I've  got  to  show  it  to  you.  You  haven't 
seen  to-day's  papers,  have  you?" 

"No.  ...  Oh,  Barry! " 

"You  bet,  sweetheart.  It's  the  annoucement  of  our  en- 
gagement." 

"Darling !  How  wonderful !  And  what  do  you  mean  by 
my  being  annoyed?  I  authorised  you  to  announce  it  any 
time  in  May  it  suited  you." 

"That's  it,"  he  admitted.  '7  was  to  send  the  announce- 
ment to  the  papers.     But  I  didn't  know  how  such  things 


E  R  I  S  821 

were  done  so  I  was  ass  enough  to  go  to  my  Aunt  about  it." 

Eris  flushed.     "Was  Mrs.  Grandcourt  annoyed?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  happened.  I  knew  she  had  just  arrived 
from  Bermuda,  and  I  went  yesterday  afternoon.  Well — my 
aunt  is  my  aunt.    We  don't  get  on. 

"We  went  through  our  semi-yearly  financial  pow-wow. 
That's  all  fixed  for  the  next  six  months. 

"Then  she  gave  me  an  opening  by  asking,  suspiciously, 
whether  I  knew  where  you  were.  .  .  .  Did  you  know  she 
once  warned  me  to  keep  away  from  you?" 

The  colour  in  Eris'  face  deepened:  "No,  I  didn't  know 
that." 

"The  reason,"  he  said  airily,  "was  because  she  liked  and 
respected  you,  and  considered  me  a  philanderer " 

"Barry!" 

"I  uvis/' 

There  ensued  a  painful  pause.  Then  their  eyes  met;  and 
he  reddened  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"I  haven't  anything  to  ask  your  pardon  for — even  men- 
tally." 

They  both  were  trembling  a  little  when  they  kissed. 

" — About  my  aunt,"  he  resumed,  the  faint  grin  again 
apparent;  "when  she  mentioned  you  I  said,  *Oh,  by  the  way, 
I'm  marrying  Eris  in  June.    I  meant  to  mention  it ' 

"Dearest,  the  extraordinary  face  my  aunt  made  at  me 
stopped  me. 

"I  think  she  was  too  astounded  to  understand  whether  she 
was  pleased  or  not.  You  see  she  had  got  me  all  wrong, 
dear.     I  wasn't  the  sort  she  believed. 

"One  thing  was  rather  extraordinary.  Did  you  suppose 
my  aunt  could  swear  ?  Well,  she  can.  She  swore  at  me  for 
ten  minutes,  threatening  dire  things  if  I  philandered  with  the 
granddaughter  of  Jeanne  d'Espremont " 

"Barry!" 

"Well,  she  did.  And  when  finally  it  filtered  through  her 
skull  that  I  was  semi-decent,  she  became  very  much  excited. 


S22  E  R I  S 

.  .  .  You've  got  to  have  a  very  grand  church  wedding,  Eris. 
Do  you  mind?" 

"Darling!    I'd  adore  it!" 

"Well,  for  heaven's  sake —  Well,  I'm  glad  you  feel  that 
way.  Men  usually  don't,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  it's  all 
right " 

"Oh,  Barry !"  she  said  in  ecstasy,  clasping  her  white  hands 
as  unconscious  of  dramatic  effect  as  when  she  pleaded  with 
Mr.  Quiss  on  Whitewater  Brook. 

He  said :  "My  aunt's  a  snob.  Here's  the  announcement 
she  sent  out  yesterday  afternoon " 

He  opened  a  drawer,  took  out  a  dozen  clippings.  They 
read  them  together : 

"Mrs.  Magnelius  Grandcourt  announces  the  engagement 
of  Eris  Odell,  granddaughter  of  the  late  Comtesse  Jeanne 
d'Espremont,  of  Bayou  d'Espremont,  Louisiana,  to  Barry 
Annan,  only  son  of  the  late  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grandcourt  An- 
nan, of  New  York. 

"Miss  Odell  is  the  descendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  Royalist 
families  of  France,- — her  great  grandfather  coming  to  this 
country  as  a  refugee  during  the  Terror  of  '93.  Miss  Odell's 
grandmother,  Comtesse  Jeanne  d'Espremont,  and  Mrs.  Mag- 
nelius Grandcourt  shared  the  same  room  at  boarding  school 
in  Exmouth,  Virginia. 

"Miss  Odell,  who  early  in  childhood  evinced  unusual  ar- 
tistic proclivities,  had  chosen  the  silent  drama  as  a  medium 
for  self-expression,  and  is  charmingly  known  to  the  artisti- 
cally fastidious  section  of  the  nation's  public. 

"But  after  the  wedding,  which  will  occur  in  June,  Miss 
Odell  has  decided  to  retire  from  a  career  which  promises 
such  brilliant  fulfilment. 

"Mr.  Annan  served  his  country  in  the  Great  War  as 
Liaison  Officer  and  was  decorated  for  gallantry  in  action. 

"He  is  an  author  of  repute  and  promise." 


E  R I S  3^ 

After  a  silence :  "Tlmfs  her  work,  Eris.  I  told  you  she's 
a  snob." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  troubled  smile :  "It's  rather 
too  late  to  do  anything  except  live  up  to  what  she  says  of 
us — isn't  it,  Barry?" 

"You  wonderful  girl,  you've  already  lived  way  beyond 
anything  that  anybody  says  of  you." 

Her  arms  went  around  his  neck,  tightened : 

"Darliiig!  .  .  .  But  we  must  make  good.  .  ,  .You  know 
it." 

He  knew  it  He  knew  that  she  already  had.  He  rested 
his  head  on  her  breast  like  a  tired  boy. 

It  was  up  to  him. 


THE  END 


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